Children of the Revolution
by Penthesilea
Summary: 1990. A new resistance appears in Dublin, armed with some conventional ammo, and some weapons only the Party can hate.
1. A Terrible Beauty is Born

Children of the Revolution  
  
Chapter 1: A Terrible Beauty is Born  
  
Harsh November winds tore through the proletarian district of Dublin. The dim grey light filtered through the light misty rain, softening the colours. Renee Pearse dodged through a crowded side street, wishing she had not decided to take the short route. Ducking into an alley, she stopped to breathe. She wrapped her thin coat around herself and continued on. She emerged from the prole quarter to face the Dublin branches of the four Ministries; Plenty, Truth, Peace and Love. She resisted the desire to make a surreptitious gesture at them, knowing very well that the telescreens around her would probably see it anyway.  
  
Those great, shining pyramids that housed the Ministries, symbols of the greatness of the Party, the government of Oceania, and Big Brother. The telescreens were blaring something about an increase of coffee rations. Not that it mattered. The coffee was little more than coloured water when one finally drank it. And they were always saying that something had been increased. Things were constantly getting better, except in reality.  
  
Renee strolled through the square, which had become something of a market area. A Party member jostled her aside. She turned to say something indignant, but he had disappeared. Bloody Party. She searched the stalls of the makeshift market for some combs. She found one for a fairly good price, but she suspected the seller would have settled for less.  
  
The trip back home was less claustrophobic, since she took the longer way. She climbed up the stairs to her tiny flat, stopping only to greet Andrew, the young landlord who lived in the apartment below hers. Not many people lived in the rooming house, so the residents were on good terms. She fumbled with her key until Constance, the other occupant of their flat, opened the door. Renee sighed.  
  
"Don't worry, they had combs. You owe me two dollars."  
  
Constance graciously moved out of the doorway to allow her roommate entrance. She smiled and thanked Renee, who stepped into the room.  
  
The apartment was small, even by prole standards. The single room housed two beds and a stove, with only a few cupboards for storage. There was only one bathroom in the house, and it was shared by the tenants of the three flats. Renee had a suspicion that Constance and Andrew sometimes occupied it simultaneously.  
  
As for the flat's residents, they were both over twenty, but not by much. Renee was twenty-four, petite, with deep brown hair and blue eyes. Their meagre diet made her deceptively thin. She was attractive, though not beautiful, nor as pretty as Constance. Constance was twenty-five, taller than Renee, and with a fuller figure, red hair and dark eyes. Between the two there was the full spectrum of prole lifestyles. Renee worked in the Ministry of Truth, cleaning the building at night. Constance walked the streets at the same time, looking for men with money to spare and a healthy appetite. But Renee and Constance had known one another since childhood, and the loyalty had carried through into adulthood. They now shared everything; their home, money and food. Neither felt the need for independence.  
  
Breakfast was waiting for Renee on the cupboards which served as counterspace. The food there was at least two days stale, and would have been meagre before that. The coffee was hot, though, and had enough caffeine to be useful after long hours. Renee poured herself a cup and took a slice of coarse brown bread as Constance disappeared to the bathroom with their new comb.  
  
Renee reclined on her bed, coffee in one hand, and searched beneath it with the other. She finally found it and pulled it out from between the frame and the mattress. Its smooth green leather cover seemed to recall a time even more ancient than its origin. She opened the book to where her place had been marked.  
  
Too long a sacrifice  
  
Can make a stone of the heart.  
  
She snorted cynically at that. Yeats, in 1916, could never have guessed the horror of the world that would be created. Now, seventy-four years later, the words had a darker meaning. The daily sacrifices made by all citizens of Oceania, Party members and proles alike, had been made after their hearts had turned to stone. The Revolution had set down a doctrine of unfeeling for the Party members that forbade love, except for that of Big Brother, and any opinion contrary to Party dogma. For the proles, the invisible and unheard majority, life was a daily struggle for survival. Joy could come, but was quickly gone, and love grew, bloomed and wilted in the space of a few years.  
  
Constance reappeared, now looking noticeably more presentable.  
  
"Yeats again?"  
  
"Course."  
  
"Which one?" She moved to the cupboards and started wrapping up the bread.  
  
"Easter 1916. Want help?"  
  
"I think I can manage a loaf of bread." Constance placed the aforementioned bread into the cupboard and closed it. "Always Yeats. Why?"  
  
"I like him. And it's the only book of poetry I own."  
  
"You could buy other ones."  
  
"Care to try? Most of the good ones were burnt. The ones out now are edited so badly by the Party that you're better off not reading them."  
  
"You just like Yeats because he was republican."  
  
"True, that."  
  
It was true, she reflected later. Yeats spoke to her because of the revolutionary within her. She was an Irish Pearse, for Christ's sake! It was in her blood to rebel against a government she hated. And Ingsoc was probably worse than the English Crown her ancestors had fought in Yeats' day. Probably. History had been so warped by the Party (English Socialist Party) that one could never be quite sure as to whether things were getting better or worse. Renee herself only knew of her family's rebellion because it had been passed down by word of mouth. But she instinctively knew that a better life was possible, even if it had never existed in the past. It was just achieving it that was the problem.  
  
Author's Note:  
  
The names Pearse and Constance refer to Padraic Pearse and Constance Markievicz, two of the leaders of the Easter Rebellion of 1916, which precipitated the underground revolution that culminated in Irish independence from Great Britain. The poem Renee reads is Easter 1916 by Willaim Butler Yeats, from which the chapter title also is taken.  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
I do not own the following:  
  
Children of the Revolution, a very good song by Marc Bolan. I borrowed its title. The lyrics come later.  
  
Nineteen Eighty-Four, the excellent book by George Orwell. I borrowed his world, in which I am not worthy to tread.  
  
Easter 1916, the beautiful poem by William Butler Yeats. You'll see bits and pieces of it throughout.  
  
Please review. :) 


	2. Transformed Utterly

Chapter 2:  
  
Transformed Utterly  
  
November was often considered the worst month of the year. Food was always scarce, as were other necessities, such as warm clothing or shelter. The ever-present war with some Asian power (Eurasia at the moment) always heated up in November. In bitter humour, some would say that the bombs were dropped to keep the freezing populace warm. Worse, the grey twilight extended to all hours of the day, giving Dublin a pale, washed-out look.  
  
Newly invigorated by her revelation, Renee scrubbed her section of the Ministry of Truth as if Big Brother himself was coming to inspect. She arrived at home the same time Constance did, just as everyone else woke up. Constance had dubbed it the Vampire Cycle. Renee had no idea what a vampire was, but she assumed it was some sort of nocturnal animal, just like the prostitutes and Ministry employees. Once inside the flat, she grabbed Constance and sat her down on the bed.  
  
"I have an idea."  
  
This did not gain much support from her tired roommate.  
  
"Renee, it's seven hundred, I had two very demanding customers, you've been scrubbing for six hours, what kind of idea can't wait until we've at least eaten?"  
  
"The kind of idea that makes the Irish great."  
  
"Now, how would that be? I don't want a debate over Irish history at seven hundred, you know. I do want coffee."  
  
"Make the coffee, then, but listen to me, Stance!" Constance obeyed her friend and set a kettle on their tiny stove. "Are you listening to me? Good. For eight hundred years the Irish have been a conquered people, right? What has changed in this century? We got our independence at the beginning. Then the bloody Party took over, and we've been back where we started this century: oppressed. Hell, the group oppressing us hasn't even changed! It's still the bloody English! But we can take what we fought for back. It took us three hundred years last time, but the notion of freedom lasted for three hundred years before we had it realized. What's wrong with us now? Do we really forget what our ancestors fought so hard for so easily? The Party tells us we're better off than before, but don't you think we can have a better life than this? I don't care what it was like before, we can make something better than now. And you have to admit, life today is shit."  
  
Her voice trailed off as she tried to find the words to express her idea. Constance stared at her over the coffee cup.  
  
"What do you want to do, Renee? Join the Brotherhood?"  
  
"Remember how my mum talked about the IRA? They were famous because what they did everyone knew about! The Brotherhood sits on its ass and lets the Party throw shit at it. Have you ever heard of what the Brotherhood has actually done?" Constance shrugged.  
  
"Party members on the telescreens. All those confessions. Not to mention, having the notion of freedom, which is pretty damn subversive."  
  
"Tell that to anyone on the street. Mum used to talk about it all the time, remember? And besides, all those confessions, have you ever seen proof that what they said they did actually happened?"  
  
"You'll end up dead if you try to start something like this."  
  
"Then I'll die a martyr, and people will remember why I died." Constance sat down.  
  
"You have a fucking death wish."  
  
"No. I'm just willing to die. Besides, I'm not sure that this world is really worth living in."  
  
"When did this all happen?"  
  
"Right when you mentioned that I liked Yeats because he was republican."  
  
"Do you think you can pull it off?"  
  
"For a while. The Party bastards never care what's going on down here. Until we start attracting attention, we'll be safe."  
  
"What constitutes attention?"  
  
"In my book, blowing things up. What do you think?"  
  
"I think you're fucking crazy. I think you've got delusions of grandeur because of that name you so proudly wear. I think you'll be dead before Christmas. If you pull this off, I think you're a fucking genius who deserves that name."  
  
Renee smiled. Not for the first time, she admired the realistic perception of her best friend, roommate, soul sister. She enveloped Constance in a huge hug.  
  
"Will you help me?"  
  
"Isn't that part of the arrangement? We share everything?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"So, how do you figure we'll start?"  
  
Renee smiled.  
  
Winter passed as the planning stages of Renee's rebellion progressed. She enlisted their neighbours, Andrew O'Neill and Thomas Lawrence into her inner circle. Andrew was surprisingly quiet, but excellent for delivering covert messages. Thomas, who lived down the hall from Renee and Constance, proved himself by making solid suggestions, and had the added bonus of working inside the Ministry of Plenty as a chef, which was perfect for information gathering. Andrew's skill brought more people in, but only close friends of the four original members. The first official action of the new resistance would take place in March.  
  
"First thing we need are the prostitutes on side. Stance, can you manage it?" Renee looked around the table. They were sitting in Andrew's flat, the largest of the three in the house.  
  
"I'll talk to them. I don't think they'll like losing money, but they're certain to have fun."  
  
"Sorry, but they're not the ones we're worried about having fun. It's the customers."  
  
"Trust me. If they have fun, they'll do it for the lower price."  
  
"Why don't we just raise prices, then? Regular price for our stuff, double for sex?" Thomas asked. Renee smiled.  
  
"Good one. Stance, try that. If they're having fun and making the same, they might be more open to the idea." Constance nodded in agreement. "Andrew? I need another message to Mr. Ryan. Ask him if everything's go for March."  
  
"Right."  
  
"And I need to know who's playing for the opening, and what. Remember that we don't want any Party drivel in there. Strictly original."  
  
"Black market's been a bitch. It's going to cost us everything we've got to set them up."  
  
"Don't worry about that. If we get desperate, we start enlisting them."  
  
"Renee?" Andrew looked up at her. "Is this going to work?"  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"I think Constance spoke for all of us when she said you were crazy. But I think it's a good idea. I'm just not sure whether we'll have the right effect."  
  
"It'll have the right effect. Thought Police are going to be breathing down our necks when they find out what we've been up to. The Party's going to hear about us, which just gets us more attention. We need to teach these people that rebellion isn't just feeling something that's not allowed, it's living like a human being."  
  
"One last thing." Thomas stopped her before she set off into a full- scale rant on the glories of humanity. "What are we, exactly? I've been asked that by people I've talked to, and I feel stupid telling them I don't know."  
  
"I've been thinking about that, too. We are the Children of the Revolution."  
  
"Oh." Constance raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that a little melodramatic?"  
  
"Melodrama is good. It means showing emotion. We need to show these bastards what it's like to feel. And they'll see that in March."  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
Thomas Lawrence is named after leaders of the Easter Rebellion, Thomas Clarke and Thomas MacDonagh. Andrew O'Neill is named not after a historical figure, but a fictional character. Seamus O'Neill, from Leon Uris' great book Trinity about Irish history, was a writer and revolutionary. I do this because not only can I not think up original Irish names, but this story is partly a tribute to the independent spirit of the Irish republicans. Not many people recognize the oppression the Irish faced until the 1920's, and the men who fought and died for Ireland are mostly unknown by the global population. On a similar vein, the title of this chapter is also from Easter 1916 by W B Yeats.  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.  
  
Easter 1916 is by William Butler Yeats. 


	3. If There is Hope, It Lies in the Proles

Chapter 3:  
  
If There is Hope, It Lies in the Proles  
  
It would not have been remarkable had the Thought Police thought it worth investigation. It was an old warehouse, now abandoned and owned by Jonathan Ryan, who was old by prole standards, pushing sixty and looking worse for wear. He had inherited the building from his family, who had once been owners of a manufacturing company before the Revolution. The Ryans, once famous for being successful Catholic businessowners, were now close allies to the inner circle of the Children of the Revolution. Jonathan had offered his services when approached by Andrew, and had happily donated his warehouse to the cause.  
  
It was perfect for Renee's plan. Located on the outskirts of Dublin, it was close enough to be accessable on foot, but far enough not to attract too much unwanted attention. It was large enough to hold as many people as needed, and was clean enough not to require too much renovation. The winter had been spent on modifying its interior with black market supplies. A stage had been built at one end, complete with a sound system put together from stolen microphone and telescreen parts. Soundproofing had been installed to prevent anyone overhearing what occurred inside.  
  
The rest of the winter had consisted of setting up a network of members. Cells were formed, and Andrew was the only member of the commanding council that contacted them. For the most part, they handled the acquisition of black market goods and recruitment of new members. It was not uncommon for the four commanders to work side-by-side with the cells, so code names were invented, much to Constance's vocal distaste. Renee privately sympathized with her roommate, as Andrew had jokingly given Constance the code name Artemis.  
  
March came in like a lion, blasting furious winds through the streets. The opening was set the next week, causing Renee to feel as if she were stretched to the breaking point. Constance and Andrew were famous in the house for working off their stress very loudly in Andrew's flat, but Renee and Thomas continued as if it were the end of the world. Which it was, Renee thought. The end of the world they knew.  
  
"O brave new world that has such people in it," she quoted, sighing. Such people like the prostitutes who were willing to risk everything for her crazy idea. Such people like Jonathan Ryan who stood to face death should the warehouse be discovered. Such people like those who had joined the Children of the Revolution because of a dream.  
  
Then there was the nagging worry that no one would even show for the opening. Andrew had extracted promises from everyone to whom he had spoken, and all of Constance's prostitute friends had agreed, but Renee knew all too well the cowardice, or perhaps common sense, that governed prole life. If they thought the risk was not worth the action, they would not come.  
  
The week flew by, although Renee would have given anything to stop it. Days blended into nights, meetings blurred and work seemed to disappear before her. All at once, the opening was upon her. She left work, knowing that it would start before she arrived. It was part of the plan, in order to protect her. If she arrived halfway through, no one would think she had orchestrated the whole scheme.  
  
She arrived home and changed out of her work clothes. She walked to the Tube station and rode until she was two stops away from the warehouse. She walked the rest of the way. On her way, she met a prostitute leading a Party member in the same direction. They walked to the warehouse together, the Party man in tow and completely confused. Renee smiled at the prostitute as they parted ways inside the warehouse.  
  
The warehouse was filled with music. The sound system they had so painstakingly created blasted the sound to every corner of the building. Renee knew from her entrance that the soundproofing held. Her heart made an ecstatic leap as she saw the inside of the building.  
  
People. More people than she had ever imagined would be there. Party members who had obviously been dragged there by Constance's colleagues. Proles who had been told via word of mouth. Some were certainly members of the COR, as they liked to call themselves. Worried glances darted to and fro, but there were smiles. The prostitutes had pulled their customers onto the dance floor with a kind of adventurous excitement. Proles danced with Party members who had extracted themselves from their enthusiastic partners. Proles swung in one another's arms. Renee caught a glimpse of Constance and Andrew in the middle of the floor.  
  
Thomas appeared by her side, smiling.  
  
"I think we can count this as a success," he said wryly.  
  
"How? What did we do to manage this?" Renee gasped.  
  
"We worked our asses off since November. I think we deserve a little happiness now. But don't stop now. This next song's for you." Renee opened her mouth to ask, but Thomas cut her off. "Andrew made sure they didn't play it until you came in."  
  
Sure enough, Andrew was next to the stage, talking to one of the young men holding the black market instruments.  
  
"They're very good," Renee managed. Thomas just smiled as the song began. It was faster than the previous one, and much more intense.  
  
"Well, you can bump and grind  
  
If it's good for your mind.  
  
You can twist and shout,  
  
Let it all hang out,  
  
But you won't fool  
  
The Children of the Revolution,  
  
No, you won't fool  
  
The Children of the Revolution,  
  
No, no.  
  
Well, you can tell I play  
  
In a foreign way  
  
I drive a Rolls Royce  
  
'Cause it's good for my voice  
  
But you won't fool  
  
The Children of the Revolution,  
  
No, you won't fool  
  
The Children of the Revolution,  
  
No, no."  
  
Renee was speechless as the song ended. Thomas cocked his head.  
  
"I asked him what a Rolls Royce is, and he said it was some kind of automobile his grandfather talked about. He said he used it because it rhymed."  
  
"You knew about this?"  
  
"Course I did. Andrew, Stance and I were plotting it ever since you said you wanted to open a dance club. You said you wanted some real talent for music, and we found you the best Dublin can offer. Between you and me, I think the singer's sweet on you."  
  
"He doesn't even know who I am!"  
  
"He knows enough to know that Pheonix is a very attractive woman." Renee rolled her eyes at that.  
  
"Who would have imagined that so many people would come for this?"  
  
"Eh, you have to have faith in people, Renee. Most people are willing to take a chance."  
  
"That they thought this was worth the chance is -"  
  
"Amazing?"  
  
"Wonderful." Thomas smiled as she said it and swept her into a hug.  
  
"Let's dance."  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
Ok, quiz for those who care: why is Pheonix an appropriate code name for Renee, and why is Artemis a joke for Constance? Answers come with the next chapter! Renee's quotation is from Act V of The Tempest. And yes, those are the real lyrics to Children of the Revolution. The chapter title is from Nineteen Eighty-Four.  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.  
  
The Tempest is by William Shakespeare.  
  
Thanks to all those who reviewed! Follow their example! :) 


	4. The Literature of the Past

Chapter 4:  
  
The Literature of the Past  
  
Renee developed a pounding headache during a COR debate. Thomas and Constance were at one another's throats in a debate. Andrew seemed five seconds away from disappearing as he shrank into his chair. Renee raised her head from the table as Thomas insisted very loudly that anarchy was the only possible outcome of violent action.  
  
"And what's so terrible about anarchy?" Constance shouted, causing Renee to cringe. "We live in a structured society. Anarchy would mean the ruination of the Party, which is the objective of the COR!"  
  
"Anarchy is not our objective! Violence can only lead to anarchy, and therefore we should not use it! Not to mention that lives could be at risk!" Thomas was leaning over the table, gesturing at Constance.  
  
"Lives are at risk every day under the Party -"  
  
"What is the use of this?" Renee asked, giving them both a tired stare. Thomas and Constance began simultaneously, but Renee shook her head. "I don't care. Whatever you were fighting about, I really don't give a shit. What will come will come. We can't stop it. We can try to control it, and meet it on our own terms, but we can deal with it as it is. The world is not going to change overnight. We will use the tools at our disposal." Thomas opened his mouth to start, but Renee continued. "We have to. Now, has this session proved any use? Andrew?" Andrew looked up at her and shook his head. "I think that settles it. We won't take any further action until we deem it timely. Any objections?" Silence. "Good. Until next time."  
  
The three remaining occupants of the room stared after her as she strode from the room.  
  
Shutting the door to her room, Renee flopped onto her bed and cradled her head in her hands. It had barely been a month since the opening of the Warehouse, as they all called the not-quite-legal dance club. Already the COR were clamouring very quietly, of course, for more action on the part of their leaders, and especially Phoenix. Sometimes, she felt as if her head would implode from the pressure.  
  
Constance softly opened the door and peered around it at her.  
  
"I thought you'd be trying to rip Thomas' throat out," Renee remarked. Constance grinned and closed the door.  
  
"Tired?" she asked. Renee nodded. "I suppose that fellow I got to dance with you last night was too much, eh?" Renee laughed. The fellow from last night had been a young and very enthusiastic Party member slumming at the Warehouse. "What is it, Renee?" Renee blinked, caught offguard by the question.  
  
"What makes you thing something's wrong?"  
  
"You've been off for two weeks. I know something's up." Constance surveyed her roommate. Renee had certainly lost weight in the last month, and she seemed more guarded. The subject shrugged.  
  
"It's nothing. Just the usual day-to-day problems of running a revolution. I suppose this is how Big Brother felt."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Big Brother. Back at the Revolution. If you remember your history, he did overthrow capitalism via revolution. I think the parallel is obvious." She said the last part to a look of confusion on Constance's face.  
  
"Is that what's worrying you? That you've turned into Big Brother?"  
  
"No. Just a thought." Constance still looked worried. "You want to know what's bothering me? I'm in the middle of a bloody revolution, running the fucking thing, and I feel like I have no control. I want to keep things going slowly, not change overnight, and yet everyone else seems to think the fight'll be over by winter. For a whole fucking month I've been trying to tell people that we have to be patient, and yet I can't think of a bloody thing to do when we're done waiting. Not to mention you and Thomas at each other's throats every single fucking meeting."  
  
"I'm sorry. But you know I'm right."  
  
"That's the bugger of it. I wish you weren't."  
  
They sat in silence, each contemplating the coming darkness. Suddenly, Renee sat up.  
  
"Stance, do you remember those books my mum would give us to read?"  
  
"Of course. Do you know what happened to them?"  
  
"Yeah. I've got some of them, and I think she still has some. When you think about it, do you think that made the difference?"  
  
"What, between being a Ministry lackey and a prostitute, rather than a revolutionary and her loyal lieutenant?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I don't know. Come to think of it, maybe."  
  
"Just maybe?" A slow smile was spreading across Renee's features as a spark appeared in her eyes. "Stance, it might have changed us, but what about other people? Could it change them?"  
  
"What do you want to do? Get presses and print books?" Constance paused. "We could probably manage that."  
  
"Good on you. Tell Andrew we've got a new requisition for the black market. Oh, and I'll have to go to my mum and ask her for the books, won't I?" Constance laughed.  
  
"She'll kill you if you damage them in any way, you do know that?"  
  
"Who'd have thought that my own mother would help the Party?"  
  
The COR responded happily to Phoenix's proposition. Black marketeers gave bargain prices to Andrew for the presses, ink and paper, and a general enthusiasm for action helped them conceal the supplies easily within COR members' houses, empty buildings and businesses. Requests for books produced a multitude of classic works banned by the Party. However, the necessity still remained that Renee ask her mother for some of her childhood favourites.  
  
Mary and James Pearse lived on the other side of the proletarian district of Dublin, accessible by Tube. She lived in a small flat on a street of rowhouses that never seemed to lose their dingy, dusty look. Renee and Constance had grown up in this neighbourhood, playing games in the dirty street. The Edwards, Constance's family, were across the street from the Pearses. Renee waved a hello to Constance's seventeen-year-old brother Eamon, still living with his parents, as she descended to the basement door behind which her parents lived and knocked on it. It opened to reveal Mary, a little older than her daughter remembered, but still as vivacious as ever. Daughter embraced mother as she stood, struck silent by surprise.  
  
Mary regained her composure and hugged her daughter back. She pulled away and held Renee at arm's length.  
  
"Renee, dear, what are you doing here?"  
  
"I can't visit my mother without reason?"  
  
"You may, but I doubt there is no reason, love. Come in, come in." Mary ushered her daughter into the apartment, which was larger and much tidier than Renee's new home.  
  
Mary herself bore as much resemblance to Renee as their homes were alike. Here or there, there was a shape of a nose, a characteristic posture, or a speech pattern that hinted at their blood relation, but only hints. Mary was taller than Renee, and bore the heaviness of age well. Her features suggested that she was once a beauty, far more classic than her daughter, and had only in recent years succumbed to age. A twinkle in her eyes displayed her general optimism and humour.  
  
Renee seated herself at the table in the kitchen opposite her mother.  
  
"So, what are you here for?" Mary's eyes sparkled with amusement.  
  
"Well, I have something to tell you."  
  
"Sounds serious, dear."  
  
"It is. I've ... Mum, you have to promise not to tell anyone."  
  
"Love, I would never betray your trust."  
  
"I've ... become involved with ... the COR." Renee stopped as she passed the first hurdle. Mary's eyebrows rose.  
  
"Really? That new one? I've heard a little, but do you really think that's worth the risk? They haven't done much by my books."  
  
"No, Mum, I'm quite sure. In fact, we're beginning a new campaign. They want to print books, Mum. Old ones, or ones written nowadays. They want to start exposing people to real culture again, created by real people. They're asking members to give books to have them copied." Renee looked at her mother, apprehensive. Mary leaned back.  
  
"I see. And you want some of mine? Renee, you know I can't let go of those. They were your grandfather's."  
  
"Mum, I promise I won't let anything happen to them."  
  
"Can you trust these people? They might be Thought Police, trying to find rebels."  
  
"Mum, I trust them. Believe me. And the books will only be gone for a few days, at most. And I can pick them up a few at a time, just so that you know not all of them are in danger at once. Please, Mum, this is important." Renee's last plaintive entreaty seemed to meet with her mother's approval. Mary smiled, and Renee sighed with relief.  
  
Mary left the room and returned with five treasures in her arms. She laid them on the table before her daughter. Renee grinned at the titles her mother had selected: "A Tale of Two Cities," "The Scarlet Pimpernel," "Richard III," "Agamemnon," and "Animal Farm".  
  
"You're not going to support me on this one, are you, Mum?" Mary laughed.  
  
"You people might as well know the consequences of what you're doing, love."  
  
Renee gathered the precious books and placed them in the bag she carried. She carefully covered them with other items that she had bought on her way there. She headed for the door, but was stopped by her mother's arm, a quick embrace and a peck on the cheek.  
  
"Good luck turning the world upside down, love. We need more of you." Renee smiled and disappeared up the stairs to the street.  
  
Author's Note:  
  
This chapter was partially inspired by Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, so I'll put that thanks here. The works Mary gives to Renee are a joke because they all show the negative side of revolution and overthrow. "A Tale of Two Cities" is the most sympathetic to the revolutionaries, but the main revolutionary characters are the antagonists. "The Scarlet Pimpernel" depicts an English nobleman rescuing French aristocrats from the French Revolution. "Richard III" has an evil prince murdering his way to the throne, and then paying for it in blood. "Agamemnon" is the Greek mythological story of the Clytemnestra-Aegisthus plot against Agamemnon and Cassandra. Clytemnestra, the evil queen, kills King Agamemnon and his concubine Cassandra, and takes over the government with her lover Aegisthus. "Animal Farm" is, of course, an allegory of the Russian Revolution, which went terribly wrong. Let's just pretend that Orwell never wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four in this world. The answers to last chapter's quiz: Pheonix is appropriate for Renee because her name means "reborn". Artemis is a joke for Constance because Artemis was the Greek goddess of chastity.  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan. You can find it on the album "The Blind Leading the Naked" by Violent Femmes, or on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack (this is the one I know) as sung by Bono.  
  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell  
  
A Tale of Two Cities is by Charles Dickens.  
  
The Scarlet Pimpernel is by the Baroness Orczy.  
  
Richard III is by William Shakespeare.  
  
Agamemnon is by Aeschylus.  
  
Animal Farm is by George Orwell. 


	5. La Vie en Rose

Chapter 5:  
  
La Vie en Rose  
  
If the COR had had any doubts about the popularity of rebellion, they were quashed every night anyone stepped into the Warehouse. Attendance every night had not waned in the months since its opening, and musicians were always ready to perform for the waiting crowds. Party members no longer had to be dragged there by prostitutes, but came of their own volition, out of a sense of cheating death, or just curiosity. Every night, the furtive glances on the streets reappeared as citizens and comrades dodged telescreens and patrols to come to the only social gathering that connected human beings.  
  
Within the Warehouse, a small library had been set up with the COR- published books. Curious people lounged on the concrete floor, devouring the forbidden works of Shakespeare and the dangerous masterpieces of Dickens. The books were forbidden to leave the area, for fear of evidence appearing in the hands of the Thought Police. Fortunately, fear of theft was not an issue, since anyone caught with the literature would pay a visit to Miniluv.  
  
The greatest problem was the Thought Police, Renee reflected one night in May. Any number of the patrons could have been their agents, and none of them would know. As a prole, they held no fear for her, unless they had discovered her activities. But her heart went out to the courage of every single Party member who literally risked their lives for a dance.  
  
A hand on her shoulder announced Thomas' arrival behind her. He stepped up beside her, drawing a friendly arm around her shoulders. The smile on his face as he scanned the room displayed that his mind was not clouded with thoughts of the Thought Police. Contrarily, his eyes rested on a Party member across the room. Renee saw the man as well, and grinned at Thomas.  
  
"Think he's cute?" she asked impishly.  
  
"Do you?" he returned equally. He sighed. "Do you think he's my type?"  
  
"Perhaps." However, to Thomas' disappointment, the young man smiled at a pretty prole girl and asked her to dance. Renee giggled. "Too bad. He's mine. But the one over there seems to be eying you." She laughed as Thomas let out a soft "ooh" of delight and sauntered over to his new friend. Her eyes returned to the young, and unfortunately straight, man now on the dance floor. He seemed to be enjoying himself; no dark thoughts seemed to cross his mind as he danced with the girl. Renee smiled to herself.  
  
The song ended, and the Party member and the girl separated. The girl joined a group of young proles, some of which Renee recognized, and the man scanned the room for another partner. Renee was half surprised when his eyes met hers. He made his way across the room to her, smiling. Her guard up, Renee smiled back. Her dreads resurfaced in her mind, warning her of possible Thought Police infiltration, betrayal, even discovery of her alter ego Pheonix. He arrived next to her.  
  
"Would you like to dance?"  
  
Still smiling, Renee accepted, and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. For a moment, she caught Thomas' eye as he smiled and winked. The dance was fairly fast, allowing her to avoid contact with the stranger. However, she allowed him a second dance. The singer finished the song and smiled at the crowd.  
  
"We'll let you rest a bit, with a song from Eurasia," she said. The song started, in a language Renee did not recognize. It was slow and soft.  
  
"Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,  
  
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,  
  
Voilà le portrait sans retouche  
  
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens.  
  
Quand il me prend dans ses bras,  
  
Il me parle tout bas;  
  
Je vois la vie en rose.  
  
Il me dit des mots d'amour,  
  
Des mots de tous les jours,  
  
Et ça me fait quelquechose.  
  
Il est entré dans mon coeur,  
  
Une part de bonheur,  
  
Dont je connais la cause:  
  
C'est lui pour moi,  
  
Moi pour lui dans la vie.  
  
Il me l'a dit,  
  
L'a juré pour la vie.  
  
Et, d s que je l'aperçois,  
  
Alors je sens en moi  
  
Mon coeur qui bat."  
  
Neither Renee nor her partner understood the lyrics to the Eurasian song, but the romance in the music seemed to erode some of the defenses that kept her from reaching out. As the song progressed, the man put his arms around her, wrapping her in an embrace that was probably more intimate than anything he had ever experienced under the Party. Renee relaxed into his arms, seeing the raw emotion on his face that could never possibly be faked. An intense longing was written across his features as he held a woman whose name he did not even know. Seeing his pain, Renee was filled with a strange sadness, almost empathy for this stranger that held her as if she were his one true love. She allowed herself to feel safe, for a little while. The last chords faded away, and the man stepped back, looking slightly embarrassed. He smiled, thanked her, then turned around and walked away from her. Renee was left alone in the crowd of people, confused and feeling very lost.  
  
However, the strange experience of the evening was not over. Late in the night, Renee and Thomas were leaving together, Thomas having promised to visit his new friend Victor later that week. Renee and Thomas intended to go back to the house pretending to be a slightly drunk couple, important details to divert the attention of the patrols. However, as she headed for the door, her hand was suddenly seized. She spun around, ready to defend herself, but saw only the young Party member with the same expression of longing on his face, but this time mixed with excitement and a little fear. He pulled her away from the door, almost into a corner.  
  
"Come back in exactly a month," he whispered. He turned to leave, but she held him back.  
  
"What's your name?" she asked.  
  
"Michael. You?"  
  
"Renee." The two of them were left staring at one another, uncertain. Suddenly, on instinct and impulse, she reached out, took his head in her hands and kissed him. He kissed her back, and for a brilliant moment, she felt like she had on the dance floor. Then he was gone, stepping out into the night air for a desperate trip home, and Thomas was coming up to her. He looked at her curiously, but said nothing, instead offering her his arm. She took it, and they donned the pretence of inebriation.  
  
A thought struck her as they teetered through the streets of Dublin: Michael wasn't a bad kisser.  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
OvermindVI - you're right, private property doesn't exist under socialism. However, the proles in Nineteen Eighty-Four don't seem to be under the same system as the Party members. Mr. Charrington (Thought Police connections aside) rented a room to Winston and Julia, and I took the assumption that the proles have a slightly more capitalist society than the Party members. Thanks for the feedback!  
  
For you non-french-speakers, here are the lyrics to La vie en rose in English (directly translated, so don't expect rhyming or rhythm):  
  
"Eyes that kiss mine,  
  
A laugh that is lost on his mouth,  
  
Here is the untouched portrait  
  
Of the man to whom I belong.  
  
When he holds me in his arms  
  
He speaks to me softly;  
  
I see the world rose-tinted.  
  
He speaks to me words of love,  
  
Every day words  
  
And it does something to me.  
  
He is inside my heart,  
  
Just one part of happiness,  
  
And I know the cause:  
  
It's him for me,  
  
Me for him all our lives.  
  
He told me so,  
  
Swore to me for a lifetime.  
  
And as soon as I see him,  
  
Then I feel in myself  
  
My heart that beats."  
  
Please feel free to criticize my French.  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.  
  
La vie en rose is by Edith Piaf.  
  
Please review. :) 


	6. Turning Point

Chapter 6:  
  
Turning Point  
  
May crawled by with continental lethargy. The Irish weather began to warm, although the famous wet climate persisted. Inside the COR, Renee found herself involuntarily shaking with excitement. Two weeks after "the incident" with Michael, she was ready to climb walls or swing from rooftops. Anything that would make her feel she was doing something.  
  
The feelings of helplessness escalated when five COR members were arrested: three Party members, two proles. Four other Party members were arrested after visiting the Warehouse. Tensions ran high in the rooming house, as the four senior members of the COR waited to see whether their identities had been tracked. Telescreen broadcasts denounced Prospero and Phoenix, but Andrew O'Neill and Renee Pearse seemed to be safe. Artemis and Oberon, better known as Constance and Thomas, were not even mentioned, leading to hope within the house that they had not been known by the unfortunate prisoners. The house's occupants rejoiced that the Party was as close as possible to admitting it did not know everything that went on in the world.  
  
Renee spent early June researching previous revolutions, which was not at all easy. She found plenty of Party-edited information on the Revolution that had brought Ingsoc to power. Her earlier angst was increased when she remembered, with the aid of a stolen textbook, that Goldstein, the founder of the Brotherhood, had been Big Brother's lieutenant. She thought of her relationship with Constance, and wondered if she would ever become like Big Brother herself. Would she go so far from the ideals of the Children of the Revolution that Constance would be forced to break away and fight her friend? Or would it be Andrew, or Thomas? Would they stand by her if someone else rose up to overthrow them?  
  
She turned the pages, eyes itching from unshed tears. Blood and violence filled the paragraphs describing the Revolution. Blood. That was what they wanted her to start: a cycle of violence that would destroy the Party and bring about a new world in a baptism of fire.  
  
Renee shut her eyes, trying to block the images that flooded her mind. She felt tears escape her eyes, and swiped at them, trying to calm herself.  
  
"Did you see them  
  
Going off to fight?  
  
Children of the barricade  
  
Who didn't last the night?  
  
Did you see them  
  
Lying where they died?  
  
Someone used to cradle them  
  
And kiss them when they cried.  
  
Did you see them  
  
Lying side by side?"  
  
Angrily, Renee blocked the sad little song from her mind. Who had sang it? Someone at the Warehouse? Her mother?  
  
"Who will wake them?  
  
No one ever will.  
  
No one ever told them that  
  
A summer's day can kill.  
  
They were schoolboys,  
  
Never held a gun,  
  
Fighting for a new world that  
  
Would rise up like the sun.  
  
Where's that new world  
  
Now the fighting's done?"  
  
She would not let that happen to her people. She was the leader of the COR, and she would protect those that had placed their trust in her. She had failed for those five members, but she would be damned if that happened again. She would teach them to fight back, using every possible means. Her complacency had led to five good people's deaths. She had stalled on the issue for too long. She was a leader; she was damn well going to lead.  
  
She stepped out into the wet streets, still hearing the mournful little tune inside her head.  
  
"Nothing changes,  
  
Nothing ever will.  
  
Every year another brat,  
  
Another mouth to fill.  
  
Same old story,  
  
What's the use of tears?  
  
What's the use of praying if  
  
There's nobody who hears?  
  
Turning, turning,  
  
Turning, turning, turning through the years."  
  
Walking through the streets, she stared at the faces of the people that passed by. Each expression was carefully sculpted to show no emotion, hiding from the ever-present telescreens. Every one had lived their entire lives under the Party, never knowing the freedom for which Renee longed, and fought. But every so often, she would hear something she had never imagined a year ago. Someone would start whistling a tune she recognized from the Warehouse, or would whisper a love poem that had been banned years before by the Party. Stupid people. They would be dead soon if they weren't careful. The oppressive hand of the Party had pushed the proles of Dublin to the breaking point, and they had generated her, Phoenix, founder of the Children of the Revolution.  
  
"Turning, turning,  
  
Turning through the years.  
  
Minutes into hours and  
  
The hours into years.  
  
Nothing changes,  
  
Nothing ever can.  
  
Round about the roundabout  
  
And back where you began.  
  
Round and round  
  
And back where you began."  
  
She wandered the streets of Dublin, not really caring where she was going. She needed to breathe, which was nearly impossible as long as the telescreens stared down at her. The face of Big Brother smiled secretively from every surface. Her previous tears threatened to return, but she pushed them back. She had made the decision, and she would stand by it.  
  
Her route returned her to the house, where she knew a meeting beckoned to her. She slipped in, hoping no one heard her, and went up to her room. For a while, she sat on her bed, staring at the floor. Then she slid a hand under her mattress and pulled out the green poetry book.  
  
"What is it but nightfall?  
  
No, no, not night but death.  
  
Was it needless death after all?"  
  
The lines of her favourite poem washed over her like a warm breeze. They comforted her, reminding her that she was not alone in the march of history. They also gave her what she needed: they told her she was right.  
  
She called together her lieutenants as Thomas arrived home from work. She wasted no time in announcing her executive decision, but her voice caught as she recited the speech she had prepared while waiting for this moment.  
  
"We have wasted too much time preparing the populace for insurrection. The time has come for us to take more drastic action. We have already begun losing members to the Thought Police. I will not wait for them to destroy us. We will take the fight to them, as soon as possible. Our objective is to turn the Party out of Ireland, and allow the revolution to spread throughout Oceania. We will do so as our ancestors repelled the British seventy years ago." She paused, waiting for the reaction around the table. Thomas looked resigned, Andrew was grimly determined, and Constance nodded in agreement.  
  
"Don't look so heartbroken, Renee," Constance said, reaching over to touch her roommate's hand. "You knew this would have to happen. I'm sorry it does, but we'll make it."  
  
"We are now at war," said Thomas, testing out the familiar phrase that now held an unfamiliar meaning.  
  
"Yes," said Constance. "And it's a good thing."  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Yes, there is a very deliberate Spider-Man reference in this chapter. I couldn't resist. I just saw the movie.  
  
The song that Renee remembers is "Turning" from Les Miserables. You can probably tell that I'm not going for musical continuity in this story. I'm just picking songs that work.  
  
The poem is, of course, Easter 1916.  
  
Oberon and Prospero are two characters from Shakespeare. Oberon is from A Midsummer Night's Dream. He is the King of the Fairies, and often turns invisible as he meddles in human affairs. This is linked to Thomas' eavesdropping skills at the Ministry. Prospero, from The Tempest, is a sorceror who is able to see events happening at a great distance, as well as affecting those events through magic. Andrew is the one who deals with the black market and has set up the cell network. Prospero is also a connection to Renee's quotation from Chapter 3.  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.  
  
The Tempest and A Midsummer Night's Dream are by William Shakespeare.  
  
Les Miserables is by Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg, based on the novel by Victor Hugo.  
  
Easter 1916 is by William Butler Yeats. 


	7. War is Peace

Chapter 7:  
War is Peace  
The declaration of war was made official when the COR set fire to the War Museum, which occupied the old General Post Office. It had been Constance's idea, but it was symbolic enough for Renee's tastes. They managed to destroy one room before the fire was put out.  
Five days after the fire, Renee found herself back in the Warehouse, waiting for Michael. Constance, full of sororal protectiveness, accompanied her. She had tried for the past month to convince her friend that Michael was almost certainly a member of the Thought Police, or would get himself arrested, and end up killing Renee, but Renee was convinced of Michael's good intentions and of her own invisibility. She was a prole: proles and animals were free.  
She was searching the crowd for him when he suddenly appeared before her, a nervous smile on his face. She smiled back, biting back a laugh as she felt Constance tense beside her. She walked up to him and took his hand, leading him onto the dance floor without saying a word.  
Gently, the music took them over, relaxing their movements to the slow beat. The mysterious sensation of connection flowed through them, electrifying every moment of physical contact. He adjusted his arms so that they encircled her waist, allowing her to lean her head against his shoulder.  
"I was worried you'd turn me in," he whispered in her ear.  
"Can't," she said with a smile. "I don't even know your last name." He laughed, but did not reply.  
"I think your friend is worried I'm going to do something indecent."  
"Not indecent. She knows about indecent. She's worried you're going to do something that will get me killed."  
"Would she be happier if I promise I won't?"  
"A little." Renee grinned.  
The dance went on, changing songs every so often, but Renee and Michael did not notice much. Slowly, his head dipped to kiss her hesitantly, but she slid her hand up to his neck, lengthening the kiss into eternity, or at least until the earth moved. Which it did.  
Renee pulled away quickly when she felt the explosion. The Warehouse shook, and the blacked-out windows rattled. She left Michael behind and quickly found Constance.  
"That was too close for comfort," Constance said, voicing Renee's silent opinion.  
"Do you think they're trying to..." Renee did not bother to finish the sentence. Constance understood.  
"They might be. I think we should go."  
Renee nodded consent, and the two women made a beeline for the exit. Once outside, they saw the flaming wreckage of a factory a few streets away, and smelled the acrid smoke that billowed into the night sky, hiding the stars. Workers from the night shift milled about, pulling survivors and corpses from the ruins. Renee could hear screams and moans from the injured and dying.  
Constance pulled at Renee's elbow. It would be unwise to try to help. Reluctantly, Renee followed her friend down an alley that led away from the remains of the factory.  
The world suddenly went red in front of her eyes. She felt, rather than heard, the impact. The Warehouse exploded behind them, showering the alley with rubble and dust. She found herself face down on the ground, her arms over her head. She was dimly aware of a cold sensation in her arm, but ignored it when she looked for Constance. Her lieutenant was buried in the pile of debris next to her, but was conscious and intact. She had a cut over her eyebrow which dripped blood down her face. Bewildered, both women looked back at the Warehouse, now a burning shell. Renee felt a wild anger at the destruction of her endeavors, but it subsided quickly when she saw the helicopters. Terrified, she scrambled to her feet as Constance did the same. They ran down the alley, hoping to escape the Thought Police. The search lights never found them, nor did any of the helicopters follow them. Once out of the industrial area, they stopped to catch their collective breath.  
As the world stopped spinning in front of her eyes, Renee finally heard the sounds of Dublin: screams and explosions. Most air raids lasted only a few seconds, with one or two bombs dropped on a small area. Now, away from the roaring flames of the factory and the Warehouse, she could hear the greater atrocity being committed. The barrage continued, lighting up the night sky in orange and red, blocking out the stars with smoke. Whistling noises heralded new attacks, and screams followed them. The smell of death filled the air.  
Renee and Constance forced themselves to walk through the holocaust. Nausea threatened them whenever they turned a corner, but they made it through the prole district. Looking out onto the downtown of Dublin, Renee realized that only the proles were targeted by the bombs. The entire prole district was being demolished, but the Party members were untouched.  
Finally, they reached what remained of the house. Andrew and Thomas were sifting through the rubble when the women arrived. Apparently, the house had been flattened by the impact of a nearby bomb, not by fire. The bombs still sang overhead, but the four leaders of the COR ignored them.  
"What is this?" Andrew asked desperately.  
"Carpet bombing," snapped Constance.  
"Why?" asked Thomas.  
"Retribution," said Renee. "They've finally paid attention to the COR. We're not below the radar anymore, not after we attack them. They let us go on until we tried to hurt them. And they know that Dublin's behind us. Dublin pays for Dublin's crime. Our crime." She sank down onto the remains of the stairs, which now led nowhere but the sky. "We did this to Dublin."  
"No." Constance was suddenly beside her, taking her hand. "They did this to Dublin. All you did was show Dublin what it deserves. It's not your fault, Renee."  
"They've got us by the throat, Stance. They've got the Warehouse and everyone inside of it. Dublin's half dead now, and no one will stand up with us. We're finished." Renee looked at her lieutenant imploringly. "We've lost."  
"No, we haven't. People will remember what you've taught them. And they'll remember what the Party did to them. The Irish have long memories, Renee. They'll keep fighting. For you."  
"The Party'll probably say it was Eurasia. Or us."  
"Probably. But everyone else will know."  
Renee nodded numbly. Suddenly, Thomas grabbed her arm.  
"You're bleeding, Renee."  
She looked down at her arm, which was indeed bleeding. Her sleeve was soaked through with blood, and her hand was covered with it. Now that she was aware of the injury, it burned and froze simultaneously. She had a long gash on her bicep, almost from shoulder to elbow. Thomas found one of her blouses in the wreckage and ripped it up for bandages. He wrapped her arm tightly in an attempt to stop the bleeding.  
All through the night, the four former residents of the house tried to salvage as many of their possessions as possible. Renee was intensely relieved when Thomas brought her the poetry book. Constance found the box where they had stored their money. However, it was Andrew who made the most important recovery.  
He called out to them as he pulled a box from the rubble. Looking around suspiciously at the sky and at the other houses on the street, he deemed it safe enough. He opened the box when the others gathered around him to reveal four handguns and ammunition.  
"I got them today. I guessed that we would be needing them once the war heated up." He glanced at the sky, still glowing from the fires. "I didn't think it would be so soon."  
"You were keeping guns in the house?!" whispered Renee savagely, hoping that the rest of the street would never hear the incriminating sentence. "Do you know how much trouble we'd get in if we were ever raided?"  
"These were going to be the only ones. I was going to tell you tomorrow." The tension remained for a moment, then Renee conceded.  
"Put them with the other stuff."  
The bombing ended at dawn. By then, most of the prole district was either in flames or in pieces. The four saw many prole families carrying possessions down the street, most likely headed for the train station and other towns. The four resolutely ignored the dilemma of leaving or staying, and continued to dig through the debris.  
When they stopped for a rest, it was Thomas who first addressed the problem. The debate went around the group for a few minutes before Renee spoke up.  
"We can't stay here," she said. "We have nothing left here. It's not worth it. We're going."  
"Where?" asked Andrew.  
"Waterford."  
"Why Waterford?" Thomas asked impatiently, but Constance was smiling.  
"Republican country," she said.  
"No." Renee was shaking her head. "I hadn't thought of that. Waterford's convenient because it's almost the exact opposite direction from where we'll really be headed."  
"And that would be?" asked Thomas.  
"The Connemara. But Waterford first."  
She stood, and found the bag she had dug out of the wreckage. She filled it with as many clothes as she could find, as well as her poetry book and one of Andrew's guns. Accepting her decision, the others packed up their belongings as well. Andrew carried the money.  
"But won't it look strange, our leaving Dublin right now?" asked Constance.  
"No. I think the words 'mass exodus' will describe the city for the next few days. It'll be fine." In the privacy of her own head, Renee added "and the Thought Police might lose us if we leave."  
They walked away from the remains of their home, sometimes glancing back, but mostly wrapped up in worry for the future.  
  
Author's Note:  
This chapter title is, of course, taken from Nineteen Eighty-Four. It's one of the three slogans of Ingsoc, the other two being Freedom is Slavery and Ignorance is Strength.  
And for those who have no idea what I'm talking about, a crash course in Irish geography: Dublin is on the east coast of the island, almost exactly in the middle. Waterford is to the south. There are two Waterfords in Ireland: the county and the main city within it. I meant the city. The Connemara is a region on the west coast, almost directly opposite Dublin. It was used by the IRA for training during the Irish Revolution, and is also one of the most beautiful regions in the world. It's also very sparsely populated.  
I also apologize for the previous version of this chapter, in which Cork was the destination. Cork is actually on the west coast of Ireland, and I conveniently forgot that in writing the chapter. Waterford is the city I meant. I apologize to the city of Cork, which I am sure is very happy in the location where it currently resides.  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell. 


	8. Phoenix Burning

Chapter 8:  
Pheonix Burning  
The four leaders of the COR stayed in Waterford for a month. In that time, Prospero managed to gather the remnants of the COR together into something resembling the old incarnation. Andrew mentioned that the carpet bombing of Dublin may have been a blessing in disguise, as the members of the COR were now spread across Ireland, but were still willing to fight. Upon that pronouncement, he received a pair of death glares from Constance and Renee. He never mentioned it again, but still took advantage of the facts.  
The destruction of the prole district of Dublin was blamed on Eurasia, supposedly performed thanks to espionage and sabotage done by the COR. Reports on the telescreens denounced Phoenix and the COR at every possible interval, and Renee had the strong suspicion that she had replaced Goldstein in the Two-Minute Hate. The telescreen reports became more and more fictional as Hate Week approached: Constance saw one that described Pheonix as a Eurasian temptress.  
"Oh, yes, I'm extraordinarily seductive hiding out in a cheap room in Waterford and bleeding all over my clothes," growled Renee.  
"Don't take it like that. You're in fine company, Phoenix: the Sirens, Morgana Le Fay, Queen Maeve, Helen of Troy -"  
"Helen of Troy wasn't evil."  
"She started a war that destroyed champions," said Constance.  
"Let's just hope I don't finish in her company, then," whispered Renee.  
Hate Week came on their second week in Waterford. Prole demonstrations in favour of the Party blocked the streets, much to Renee's disgust. Pheonix was burned in effigy many times over, which resulted in a number of jokes from Andrew. The four Dubliners participated in some of the bigger demonstrations in order to keep up some sort of facade. Renee and Constance worried about the wounds they had sustained from the bombing of the Warehouse. Constance's cut was small and easily ignored by the casual eye, even though it would scar her face for the rest of her life. Renee had the more serious and easily identified injury, so she took pains to hide it. There were several close calls, often when someone would bump into her, causing her to gasp in pain. Thomas learned very quickly to cover for her, either by distracting any spectators or pretending to gasp along with her at something, usually insignificant. The pretense held, and the inner circle of the COR passed themselves off as patriotic proles. Renee even helped burn one of the Phoenixes.  
"That has to be symbolic of something," said Thomas once the four had returned to their rented rooms.  
Renee laughed.  
"Every time the phoenix burns, it rises from the ashes to live again," she said. "And I fully intend to do so."  
She cast a quick glance at Constance, who smiled and said nothing.  
The COR proved itself very much alive during Hate Week. COR graffiti appeared across Ireland. Party posters were ripped down in Derry, Cork and Galway. Rocks were thrown at the Ministry pyramids in Dublin. Telescreens were smashed in Armagh, Limerick and Belfast. "Freedom songs," written by proles, were belted out at night from dark corners. The freedom song Children of the Revolution became the COR anthem. Arrests were made constantly.  
The last two weeks in Waterford were spent solidifying the cells there. When the four Dubliners left, they needed to leave behind an independent organization that would not need constant attention from the commanding council. Prospero's national communication network was improved, so that messages could be more easily sent across the country. Renee asked Andrew how it actually worked one day.  
"Word of mouth," he said.  
Renee decided she would eventually need a full tutorial in the intricate workings of COR communications. It even had an unofficial Newspeak name: CORCOM.  
Most importantly, the four persuaded one of the Waterford cells to establish a new version of the Warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Cuchulainn, Andrew's contact, argued long and hard against it, citing the destruction of the Dublin Warehouse as a reason against the risk. Renee's guilt over the deaths and arrests that had occurred then almost killed the idea, but Constance and Thomas convinced her to support the new dance hall. Andrew, invigorated by Renee's agreement, overrode Cuchulainn's objections and set the complicated plan in motion. It would be six months before the abandoned factory opened, and the Waterford cells would be the ones to convert, operate and protect the Factory.  
A month after the bombing of Dublin, the commanders of the COR packed what possessions they had brought from home and left Waterford for the Connemara.  
The train ride to Galway was uneventful. Constance had wanted to split up the group and take different routes, but Renee dismissed her friend's fears. They merely looked like Dubliner refugees, moving from place to place. There was no reason for the Thought Police to associate the group with the COR, especially since they only knew about Phoenix and Prospero within the commanding council.  
Once in Galway, the four took buses from town to town, travelling deeper into the wild moors. They stopped in a tiny town nestled in a valley, and set out on foot.  
They had carefully stocked food in Waterford, and brought it all with them. They hiked up the hills, through the heather, usually wet with mist. Renee had never felt so free in her life. They could not be heard or seen by the omniscient Party. Under the sky, she could be Phoenix or Renee Pearse, no one cared. Not even the blisters on her feet or her permanently wet hair could dampen her spirits. A few hours after the hike began, she remembered a song her mother had once sung.  
"Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are callin'  
From glen to glen and down the mountainside.  
The summer's gone, and all the roses fallen.  
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.  
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,  
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,  
'Tis I'll be there -"  
Upon hitting the high note, a clump of heather hit the back of her head. She turned around to see Constance smirking at her. She narrowed her eyes, then bent down, tore at the heather, and threw it at her friend's face. Before the situation became a full-blown heather fight, Thomas stepped between them.  
"All right, ladies, no need to act like children," he said.  
"Amazing that the future of Ireland rests on the shoulders of you two," said Andrew from behind Constance.  
The women's eyes locked, and then their bags were tossed onto the ground as the four commanders of the COR wrestled in the heather: Constance and Renee versus Thomas and Andrew. The women won, successfully pinning down their opponents, but their victory was insignificant as the four lay on the ground, laughing.  
They eventually pulled themselves to their feet and continued on up the hill. They reached their destination at dusk: a crumbling keep and tower that had once presided over the immediate vicinity. Thomas saw a helicopter coming as he climbed the tower, and everyone ducked for cover, Thomas keeping the lookout as the Thought Police patrol passed over without seeing anything.  
"How often do they come?" asked Constance.  
"How should I know?" retorted Thomas as he watched the helicopter.  
"It can't be more than once a day," said Renee. "We didn't see anything all day. We just have to be careful."  
She stood and surveyed her new home. Andrew had asked a contact in Galway for the locations of several castles, and Renee had selected this one for its accessibility from the nearest town, and topographical location. From this castle, they could see Thought Police patrols coming miles away.  
The night was cold, even for July, so all four huddled together for warmth in the smallest room in the tower. Renee's arm felt a little strange, but she ignored it.  
The next day, they combed the castle for hidden microphones. None were found, although Andrew did mistake a plant root for a wire. Setting up house was more difficult. Andrew resolved to buy a black-market stove after attempting to light a fire in one of the immense fireplaces. The keep was almost unusable due to its lack of floors and a roof. However, Renee was confident that, with the aid of the black market, this castle could be the new headquarters of the COR.  
"It needs a name," said Thomas, a few days after their arrival.  
He and Renee were trying to install the black-market generator that had been delivered to the town that morning. CORCOM seemed to be very efficient in obtaining black-market supplies.  
"This old thing?" asked Renee, indicating the machine.  
"The castle."  
Renee spent the night thinking about that. The next morning, she christened the castle "Baile Saoirse": "freedom home."  
Author's Note:  
Renee's company: the Sirens were nymphs in Greek mythology whose song was so beautiful that sailors would be lured to their deaths on the rocks around the Sirens' island. Morgana LeFay was King Arthur's half-sister, a powerful witch, and the mother of Mordred, Arthur's killer. Queen Maeve was the legendary queen of Connaught, and started the war between Connaught and Ulster. Her soldiers killed the Ulster champion Cuchullain. Helen of Troy was the mythological queen of Sparta who eloped with the Trojan prince Paris, thus beginning the Trojan War between Troy and Greece that resulted in the deaths of such heros as Achilles, Hector, and Ajax.  
Irish geography (I have a map this time): Derry, also known as Londonderry, is pretty much on the western border of Northern Ireland. Cork is in the south-west of Ireland. Galway is on the west coast, opposite Dublin. Armagh is in the south-east of Northern Ireland. Limerick is in the west, between Galway and Cork. Belfast is on the east coast of Northern Ireland.  
Cuchulainn was the legendary hero of Ulster. In his final battle against Queen Maeve's forces, he became so tired that he tied himself to a stone to keep upright. He died, but the Connaught troops were so afraid of him that they would not go near him until a raven landed on him, proving he was dead. A statue of Cuchullain commemorates the Easter 1916 Rising at the General Post Office in Dublin.  
"Baile Saoirse" is Gaelic for "freedom home." There are over 800 castles in Ireland, all in varying states of ruin. I figured it was plausible that there would be one in the Connemara, just waiting for the COR to take it over.  
And I'm sure all of you know that the song Renee was singing is Danny Boy.  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell. 


	9. Night Grows Darker

Chapter 9:  
Night Grows Darker  
"Patrol!"  
The single word echoed through Baile Saoirse. For a moment, everyone inside the castle froze, then a flurry of activity began. The newly installed electric lights inside the tower were turned off, lest any of the light leak through the blackout curtains on the windows. The courtyard and keep were cleared of any items that had been stupidly left out in the open. The occupants raced to the cover afforded by the tower, hiding themselves from the helicopter that passed overhead.  
As the sound of the chopper grew louder, silence descended within the castle. The dull clacking seemed to bore into their brains, threatening discovery, arrest and death. The very sound seemed to shake the ancient ruins, causing the curtains to billow as the occupants hastily pinned them down. Every person envisioned the same image: the black insect-like body with its blades spinning above it, manned by faceless black-clad Thought Police ready to pounce on anything out of the ordinary. As one, the inhabitants held their breath, then the sound faded, and they exhaled.  
"It's gone?" said Constance through the darkness inside the tower.  
Thomas nodded, even though she could barely see him, then ran up the spiral stairs to the top of the tower. He waited for the helicopter to disappear completely.  
"All clear!" he called.  
The tension immediately defused. Andrew turned the lights back on to reveal Renee and Constance sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall and Thomas coming down the stairs.  
"And that concludes our daily patrol," he said. "When's supper?"  
"Aren't you cooking, Mr. Ministry Chef?" asked Constance.  
"Only according to you."  
"But you agreed to do the cooking."  
"I wasn't part of those negotiations. Renee?"  
Renee, who had found herself drifting off, returned to earth.  
"What?" was her articulate reply.  
"Who's cooking?" demanded Thomas, as Constance said something much to the same effect.  
"I thought you were," said Renee, referring to Thomas.  
"Ha!" A triumphant Constance chivvied Thomas out toward the makeshift kitchen. Andrew smiled as he watched them go.  
"She'll end up helping him anyway," he commented dryly.  
"I know."  
Renee sighed and leaned back against the wall. She had felt so tired all week, ever since they had arrived at Baile Saoirse. The constant arrival of household items had kept her active and worried, even though Andrew had assured her that they were safe here. In addition, her arm had been increasingly painful for three days.  
"All right there?" asked Andrew.  
"Just tired."  
Andrew grinned and sat down beside her.  
"It's been a hell of a week," he said.  
"It's been a hell of a month!"  
"Year, really."  
"Less than that."  
"Really?"  
"Nine months, actually."  
"Huh. Feels like it's been a lifetime."  
Renee leaned over and lay her head on his shoulder. They sat like that for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts, as Constance and Thomas happily bickered over food preparation in the kitchen.  
The next morning, Renee woke covered in sweat, yet freezing under her blankets, with her arm burning around her wound. As she sat up, her head started spinning, so she decided to lay back down.  
"Renee?" Constance, who had been dressing across the room, knelt beside Renee's tangle of blankets and pillows. "Are you all right?"  
"No." Renee could barely manage the single syllable, let alone the sarcastic response that had run through her head.  
Constance laid a hand on Renee's forehead, and a quick intake of breath told Renee that she had a high fever.  
"Where does it hurt?" asked Constance.  
"Arm," whispered Renee.  
Constance pulled off the sweater Renee had worn to bed and unwrapped the dressings on her arm. The wound was now red and swollen, and the bandages were painfully stuck to it with a sickly yellow fluid. Renee groaned as Constance pulled the cloth from her arm.  
"Don't move," said Constance.  
She raced down the staircase to the kitchen, where Thomas was making breakfast.  
"You helped Renee change her bandages yesterday, didn't you?" she demanded.  
"Yeah," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone.  
"Her wound, was it red and swollen yesterday?"  
"It was a little red, but -"  
He was cut off by Constance swearing.  
"Tell Andrew to get some penicillin for Renee immediately," she ordered.  
"What's this all about?"  
"Her arm's infected."  
With that, Constance ran back to Renee. A few minutes later, as she was bandaging the wound with new dressings, Andrew appeared at the doorway.  
"Did Thomas tell you?" asked Constance.  
"Yes. Connie, I can't get penicillin for her."  
"Why not?"  
"We can't afford it. Medicine's expensive, you know that. We don't have enough money for it."  
"We can get more money."  
"From where?"  
"I don't know! You're the one who knows how to get things!"  
"We've barely been able to eat, and that's been thanks to charity and theft. We've spent our savings -"  
"We can steal the penicillin." Constance was suddenly smiling.  
"From where? The Party? The black market is the only place you can get medicine, and we can't make an enemy of them."  
Constance's face fell as she looked from her lover to her best friend.  
"She could die, Drew. I've seen it happen, and I won't let it. Not to her."  
"You don't know she will -"  
"It's too serious, Drew. She's already out of it. We have to get her treated now!"  
"Connie, the best I can do is have a medic come here and help her."  
"Do it."  
For a moment, the two stared at one another, testing the other's resolve, although neither knew why. Andrew looked away first.  
"All right. It should take about two days."  
Constance nodded, and Andrew took off down the stairs.  
Over the next two days, Renee's condition worsened. On the second day, she spent most of her time asleep, occasionally exclaiming a nonsensical syllable. Constance kept her vigil, refusing to leave her captain's side. As the interminable hours stretched on, she applied every scrap of medical knowledge she had ever learned, desperate to save Renee. Twice the Thought Police patrols passed over Baile Saoirse, but the tension and worry within the castle was saved all for the intrepid commander of the COR.  
Author's Note:  
Much thanks to Silky, DL and Vickie for their help with my ignorant medical questions. This chapter is dedicated to them.  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell. 


	10. Strength in the Dark

Chapter 10:  
Strength in the Dark  
  
Renee was almost completely oblivious to the tensions in Baile Saoirse. Instead, she was living in another existence, exploring her own psyche.  
She found herself standing inside Baile Saoirse, except that it was not her castle. This too was a castle, but very different, even to her unresisting mind. This castle was complete, its walls and towers high above her head, except for an iron ball embedded in the wall she was facing. She was standing in the courtyard, but Baile Saoirse had no courtyard, just the interior of the ruined keep. The paving stones surrounded a plot of grass that was lush and green, obviously tended by a myriad of gardeners. She faced the keep, but it was so high, and its walls were studded with arrow-slits and topped with battlements and overhanging matriculations. She turned to see the outer walls, also designed for defence, but with no-one to defend them.  
A cold wind struck her face with enough force to bowl her over. As she regained her balance, she noticed her clothing for the first time: a long white dress topped with a chain-mail shirt and a long broadsword dangling from her belt. The long skirt floated in the wind, which quickly died away.  
Behind her, from the top of the keep, there came a sound.  
"Rose, Rose, Rose White,  
Will you be my lover tonight?  
I will love thee at thy will, sire,  
At thy will."  
Renee turned to see the singer, but only saw a glimpse of red inside the keep. The wind sprang up again, knocking her forward like a hammer to her back. Her armour clattered as she hit the stones face first, and she could feel the wetness of the grass through the thin material of her skirt. She groaned as her injured arm took most of her weight, then realized that there was no pain, only a dim burning sensation. The white material of her dress was pristine where it should have been covered in blood. She pushed up her sleeve to see her arm, perfectly healed. She scrambled to her feet as the singer continued.  
"Rose, Rose, Rose Red,  
Will I ever see thee wed?  
I will marry at thy will, sire,  
At thy will."  
The singer had somehow climbed to the top of the keep in the few seconds that Renee had wasted with the wind. Renee looked up to see a figure clothed in red standing at the battlements, looking down at her. The woman's long dark hair floated in the breeze, even though the wind should have been even stronger at the top of the impossibly tall keep.   
Curious, Renee set off into the keep, only to be met by a wall with a cross-shaped arrow slit. She turned right, and climbed the irregular steps until she found a corner tower that would take her to the top. She stumbled, her sword banging on the rough steps as she climbed. Once, she looked out an arrow slit, and her stomach flipped as the building seemed to push her forwards and pull her backwards at the same time. She continued up the spiral stairs.  
"Ding dong, ding dong.  
Wedding bells on an April morn.  
Carve thy name on a moss-covered stone,  
A moss-covered stone."  
She suddenly recognized the voice and the figure. But she would never go up there, would she?   
Her stomach feeling as if it was about to implode, she continued up the stairs, which stretched on into eternity. No castle could ever be this high. No human being could ever climb this far. Renee forgot her stomach as her heart strained against her ribcage, her lungs burned and her legs turned to searing lead.   
Finally, she reached the battlements. She emerged into the grey light of Irish noon and saw the singer, standing by the walls: a woman in red with stars in her hair. Gasping, Renee watched and listened.  
"Ding dong, ding dong.  
Funeral bells on a September morn.  
Rose Red is dead and gone, sire,  
Dead and gone."  
The woman turned to Renee, who was not surprised to see her own features on the other's face. Phoenix smiled mysteriously and stepped away from the walls. She extended a hand, willing Renee to come closer, but Renee refused to move. She clung to the battlements, afraid to look anywhere but Phoenix's face.  
The wind returned, freezing her tense hands on the stones, and threatening to knock her sideways into oblivion. Phoenix urged her forward, but Renee shook her head, digging her nails into the ancient mortar of the walls. Phoenix sighed, but did nothing more.  
A warm hand on Renee's shoulder gently turned her around, despite her desperate grip on the battlements. She stared into Michael's handsome face, comforted by his familiar presence. The castle, with Phoenix, faded away without Renee noticing. Now she was in the Warehouse, alone with Michael. He took his hand from her shoulder and placed it around her waist, ignoring the still-present sword. He drew her close as he had before, and swayed gently to the music that was just on the cusp of her hearing. The lights seemed to dim and change colour, so that the normally white lights were now red, blue and green, littering the floor with strange patterns of colour.  
Suddenly, he drew back. He looked down at his front, and the scarlet sash he wore around his waist, symbol of his Party-enforced chastity. He untied it and let it fall to the ground, then looked back at her. Renee felt the strange sensation of inevitability. Her hands, guided by some other power, drew her sword and plunged it into his gut. She drew the sword back, allowing him to fall to the ground. Horrified, she threw away the sword and dropped to her knees beside him. She drew his head into her lap, trying to stop the flow of blood with her hands, to no avail. His body went limp in her arms.  
"Killer," whispered someone behind her.  
She pushed away Michael's body, and stood up. The skirt of her dress was soaked in his blood, and her hands were covered in it. However, even as she stared at it, she straightened up, coming to a realization.  
"No," she said. "You are."  
She stepped over Michael's body and picked up her sword in slow, deliberate movements. Then she turned and faced Big Brother.  
The Warehouse vanished, and a room with white tiled walls and harsh white light took its place. She knew where she was, even if she had never been there in reality: the Ministry of Love. This was her vision, her nightmare. Big Brother smiled and saluted her.  
He wielded no sword, but his arms parried her blows as well as any shield. He struck out with a fist, landing a punch on her jaw. They fought for a long time, both refusing to surrendur. Finally, he knocked her sword from her hands and threw her into a wall. He towered over her, menacing, evil.  
"You're mine," he said.  
Renee smiled. She lashed out with her foot, stalling him long enough for her to get to her feet. She stood before him, a proud warrior.  
"I'll never be," she said. "I'm my own."  
She slammed an open palm into his chest. A crackling white energy threw him back. The energy surrounded him, and when it dissipated, he was gone.  
Aware of something different, Renee looked down at herself. Her dress was no longer white and spattered with blood, but red. Her armour and sword had likewise disappeared. She turned to the wall, which reflected her image perfectly, and found herself once again staring Phoenix in the face, only this time, they were one.  
Author's Note:  
Ok, that was only a tiny bit surreal. :) Don't worry, we'll be back to our normally scheduled plot with the next chapter.  
"A woman in red with stars in her hair" is a quotation from Terry Pratchett's Lords and Ladies.  
The song that Phoenix sings is Peace Round, which is a traditional English folk song. There are God-knows-how-many verses to it, but those were the ones I learned.  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.  
Lords and Ladies is by Terry Pratchett. 


	11. Daybreak

Chapter 11:  
Daybreak  
Renee opened her eyes to see a strange woman standing over her. Her arm still burned, but she could feel something cool on her wound. She turned her head to see Constance standing behind the new woman, a look of intense relief across her face.  
"Who are you?" Renee demanded of the stranger. Constance laughed delightedly, although she was obviously very tired. "What are you laughing at?"  
"You're all right!" Constance crowed. With that, she dashed down the stairs, leaving Renee and the stranger together.  
"Same cannot be said of her," commented Renee. "So, who are you, and what are you doing in my castle?"  
The woman smiled. She was older than Renee, at least thirty-five, with a kind face and a stout build. Her brown hair was streaked with silver and pulled back out of her face. She opened her mouth to speak when Andrew, Thomas and Constance burst in.  
"Phoenix!" Thomas hugged her as Andrew held Constance.  
"Will you all shut up and tell me who this is?" Renee ordered.  
"Back to normal," grinned Thomas.  
Andrew let go of Constance and introduced the woman.  
"Phoenix, this is Witch. She's the medic that treated your arm."  
"Ah. I suppose I should say thank you," Renee said with a smile.  
"You're very welcome," Witch answered quietly, but she was cut off by a Constance's arm around her neck in a joyous hug.  
As Witch struggled to politely extricate herself from the second-in-command of the COR, Andrew explained how they had brought her from Galway to treat Renee's infection.  
"How long have I been out?" asked Renee.  
"Three days, give or take," said Thomas.  
Renee groaned and lay back on her bed.  
"What've you done to my rebellion?" she moaned melodramatically.  
"Nothing more than the usual," said Andrew. "Graffiti, arrests, nothing for you to worry yourself over."  
"Actually, she shouldn't be worrying over anything for a few days," interrupted Witch, now free of Constance. "She'll be needing rest, which I doubt running a rebellion will afford her."  
"Right!" Andrew clapped his hands. "In that case, we'll leave you to your rest. Witch, thanks for coming. You can go down to the village?"  
"Of course." Smiling gently, Witch picked up a small bag and a coat lying next to Renee's feet, then turned down the stairs, pausing only to exchange good-byes with her commanders, and then disappeared.  
"And we have to look at the Derry problem," Andrew said to Thomas.  
"Right. Good to see you back on your feet," said Thomas. He paused. "Theoretically speaking, of course."  
"What's the Derry problem?" Renee called indignantly, but the men were already down the stairs.  
Constance threw herself down next to Renee's bed. Renee fixed her with a glare.  
"Are you going to tell me what the Derry problem is?" she demanded.  
"No. Not until you're up and about again. Don't worry," Constance added, seeing Renee's eyes widen, "it's nothing serious." She sighed as she lay down on the floor, resting her chin on her folded arms.  
"You look like shit, Stance."  
"Thanks. So do you."  
Renee smiled.  
"I noticed that Andrew didn't mention who called Witch in. Now, if I can guess correctly, you immediately decided I was dying and ordered Andrew to do everything in his power to cure me?"  
Constance sighed and rolled over onto her back.  
"Yeah. Pretty much, that's what happened."  
"You shouldn't do that, Stance."  
"Why not?" Constance sat up and stared Renee in the eye. "You're the closest thing I have to a sister. You're my captain and my friend -"  
"Save the older sister histrionics for Eamon, Stance." There was a pregnant pause. "You've been staying with me all the time, haven't you?" she added softly.  
Constance nodded, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.  
"I was scared, Nee. I saw you there, and all I could think of was..." She looked away.  
Renee swallowed the lump in her throat and took Constance's hand in her own.  
"I'm sorry."  
Constance gave her a watery smile, then brushed away her tears with the back of her hand.  
"Thank you," Renee whispered. She clasped Constance's hand to her heart as she sat up and pulled her friend into a tight embrace.  
For the next week, Renee slowly recovered, and by the third day, she had nearly driven the rest of the inhabitants of Baile Saoirse to homicide with constant questions about the state of her COR. By the fourth, she was back on her feet, if only through force of will alone, and resumed command of the rebellion. The fifth day she spent in bed, having overexerted herself the previous day. Constance would have said "I told you so," but refrained, knowing Renee would retaliate and probably damage herself further with the effort. Days six and seven passed without major incident, and Renee was safely in charge by the end of the seventh day.  
Once back in command, Renee learned that she had missed more important information than Andrew had told her. There had been requests from many of the cells located in major cities to build dance clubs patterned after the Warehouse, which Andrew and Thomas wanted her to approve. The "Derry problem" was a lack of resources in the Derry cells. Most importantly, there were reports on the situation in Dublin.  
Renee suddenly realized how little information she had received on the subject, and tore through the reports. The devastation was bad, morale was worse. The death toll was higher than she had ever imagined, and had been augmented by riots after Hate Week. Dublin had been shut down, and only recently had movement to and from the city been allowed.  
Three weeks, not a word from Dublin, and they had done nothing, Renee thought bitterly. They had not even noticed the ominous silence. She thought of her city as she had last seen it, its ruins sending smoke into the sky so that the misty light grew hazy and dull. Then she thought of her family. How callous could they be, she thought. She did not know whether her parents were still alive, in Dublin, or somewhere else entirely. Horrified, she called out to the others, only to be drowned out by Thomas' voice warning of Thought Police patrols.  
Once the chopper had passed, she bluntly said she was going back to Dublin. Predictably, this was met with less than enthusiastic responses.  
"Are you insane, woman?" cried Thomas. "Have you seen the reports?"  
"No, I'm just holding them for fun," she retorted.  
"You can't go back!"  
"Well, I certainly intend to try. Who's coming with me?"  
She looked around the table. Andrew was shrinking into himself, which meant that he disagreed with her, while Constance looked her in the eye.  
"I am," she said.  
Renee nodded.  
"You two?" she asked.  
Both shook their heads. Of course they wouldn't, she realized. Thomas was from Belfast, and Andrew's parents were dead. They had no reason to go.  
"All right, then."  
The next day, she and Constance hiked down to the town, and took various buses to Galway, where they took a train to Dublin.  
"Why is it," Renee asked once they had settled into their seats, "that our lives seem to go in circles?"  
"They don't," said Constance. "It's just that the farther you go, the faster you come home."  
Renee leaned back and stared out the window at the hills rolling by. She felt a strange queasiness in her stomach as they neared her home town, not knowing what lay ahead, and afraid to find out.  
  
Author's Notes:  
As promised, the plot goes on. Now we're partying, that's what it's all about!  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell. 


	12. Still Free

Chapter 12:  
Still Free  
The green hills of Dublin county gradually gave way to the outskirts of the city. Renee, her nails digging into the palms of her hands, stared out at the devastation the Party had wreaked on her city. The train passed mere shells of buildings with their roofs open to the sky. Decomposing corpses lay among the ruins, and the people who passed them without a glance were little better. The beginnings of freedom Renee had seen before the bombing were gone without a trace. The people's faces were grey and closed, with no hint as to the activity inside. Starving children played idle games with pieces of rubble. As the train pulled into the station, the destruction was overtaken by the pristine Party quarters and downtown.  
Disembarking from the train, Renee and Constance walked through the merchant streets, where the bombing had been kind. Before, the streets had been less than respectable, filled with tiny stores selling anything and everything. The "free market," the Party called it. Now, they were overflowing with homeless proles too impoverished to buy a train ticket elsewhere. Starving whores offered themselves to passing Party members, and many children openly begged for money. Constance found the address Andrew had given her, a safe house owned by a COR member who could put them up for the duration of their stay.  
"Wonderful. A pub," she said.  
They were standing outside a rather decrepit-looking pub with a peeling sign proclaiming it to be "Sullivan's."  
"It might be better," said Renee. "No one notices if someone goes in and out of a pub often. Same cannot be said of a store."  
With Constance grumbling behind her, she opened the door and stepped in. The inside of Sullivan's was not much better than the outside. Even in the late afternoon, it was gloomy and stank of alcohol. However, it was empty, except for the man behind the bar. Renee laid her hands on the bar, wishing she could have done so in another time, another world, when all that approaching a bar meant was that you wanted another drink.  
"Uh..." she said intelligently. However, it did attract the man's attention.  
"Yeah, comrade?"  
Renee breathed a sigh of relief. The COR had taken to using the Party's own form of addressing one another to camouflage their own form of identification. Hopefully, any Thought Police operatives thought the proles were merely copying the Party. Hopefully.  
"I'm looking for Shadow, comrade," she said, using the countersignal.  
A smile broke across the man's face.  
"You've found him. And who would you be?"  
"Phoenix and Artemis. I believe you received a CORCOM from Prospero?" Renee barely whispered the codes, out of habit and a little bit of fear.  
"Just this morning. Must've taken the train before you two. You'll be wanting a room, then, ma'am?"  
Ma'am, she thought. He used the old title of respect when addressing her. Ma'am. Short for "madame," which meant "my lady" in some Eurasian language. An antique show of respect from a time beyond her memory. A title for capitalists and aristocrats. And revolutionaries. A signal that here was someone she could trust.  
She looked at him for a fraction of a second, flashing his features so that they burned into her memory. He was older than she was, her mother's generation. He would remember the time of capitalism, before the Party. He looked like someone's grandfather, an old person upon whose knee a child would love to sit on to hear stories of the time they could never remember. She wondered if he had any grandchildren.  
"Yes, a room would be lovely."  
He led them up the back stairs to the floor above the pub. The dim hallway branched off to three rooms: a bathroom, a bedroom, and another room that contained a woman the same age as Shadow, spreading blankets on the floor.  
"This is my wife," Shadow said, not naming her. She smiled, and fluffed up a pillow.  
"I'm sorry we can't give you ladies beds, but -"  
"We understand," said Constance. She smiled at Renee. "We've not been sleeping on much better out at Baile Saoirse."  
"Worse, actually. Thank you, I know this is a terrible risk," said Renee.  
"No trouble at all," said Shadow's wife.  
"The least we can do," said Shadow with a smile. He put his arm around his wife, leading her from the room. He turned on the threshold. "You're welcome down in the pub all the time you're here, ma'am." With that, he left his commanders, shutting the door.  
Renee breathed a sigh and leaned against the wall. She slid down, sitting against it. Constance sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. Renee reached up and took Constance's hand, leaning against her friend's shoulder.  
"Did you see it?" she asked.  
"Yes. I did," answered Constance.  
"What did we do? How could we do this?"  
"We didn't. It's not your fault, and don't you dare start that again. We're here to find our families and get out, that's all. You don't have to do anything else. Serenity said she'd take care of Dublin for us. We have to take care of Ireland, do you understand? Dublin's her responsibility."  
Renee nodded, though the empty feeling in her stomach did not fade.  
"Good," said Constance. "Now, we'll have something to eat, then we'll go down to the pub. Tomorrow, we'll go out bright and early to find our families."  
She reached over to Renee's bag, where she had packed food from Baile Saoirse. Uncertain of the state of food distribution in Dublin, they had brought some of their own. They ate very little, since neither had much of an appetite.  
The pub had begun to fill by the time they mustered up the courage to go down. Shadow was behind the bar, doling out beer and accepting money. Victory ale, Victory stout. Renee remembered her mother talking about her grandfather complaining that there was never a decent Guinness or Murphys to be found after the Revolution. He had disappeared when her mother had been a teenager. Her father had always told Mary to watch what she said whenever she would tell Renee and Constance about the past. Renee bit her lip and strode toward the bar.  
Shadow winked at her and placed two half-litre glasses of stout on the bar. Renee reached for her pocket to pay, but he shook his head. He leaned forward, as if to push the glasses into her hands.  
"Least I can do, ma'am," he whispered in her ear.  
Renee pulled back so that they were almost nose to nose. He smiled.  
"You'll be wanting to go in the back." He glanced at a door next to the one leading upstaires, then pulled away from her and poured another beer for another customer.  
Confused, but at least distracted, Renee made her way back to Constance, who was sitting at a small table.  
"Come on," Renee said. She handed the half-litre to Constance and led her to the door indicated by Shadow.  
Opening the door, she found herself in a room almost identical to the front of the pub, only without the bar. It was exactly as one would expect the back room of a pub to be. However, the difference was obvious once she stepped over the threshold.  
Music. Freedom songs, to be precise. This was nothing like the Warehouse, of course. It was just a few proles drinking stout and listening to quiet music. But they had kept it alive, kept the spirit of the Warehouse going.  
"Take my love, take my land,  
Take me where I cannot stand.  
I don't care, I'm still free.  
You can't take the sky from me.  
Take me out to the black,  
Tell them I ain't coming back.  
Burn the land and boil the sea;  
You can't take the sky from me.  
There's no place I can be  
Since I found Serenity.  
But you can't take the sky from me."  
Renee felt a lump in her throat rising. A tear rolled down her cheek as she silently toasted the singer and drank her stout. Tomorrow, she would find her family. Tonight, she would lose herself in the music.  
  
Author's Note:  
The song is the theme song from Firefly. I'm not sure of the title, but I love it. It's got a great Western/Irish feel.  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.  
Theme from Firefly is by Joss Whedon. 


	13. The Music of the Night

Chapter 13:  
The Music of the Night  
  
"Nighttime sharpens,  
Heightens each sensation.  
Darkness stirs and  
Wakes imagination.  
Silently the senses  
Abandon their defenses."  
Renee stepped out into the crisp air of the Dublin night from the warmth of Sullivan's pub. She had left Constance asleep in their room, and had not told her that she was going out. In truth, Renee herself did not know where she intended to go, and had avoided the question when posed to her by Shadow's wife. The weight of her gun was comforting as she slipped her hands into her pockets for warmth. She turned down the rubble-strewn street and walked as she had so many times before, just watching the world go by, a song from the pub worming its way through her head.  
"Slowly, gently  
Night unfurls its splendour.  
Grasp it, sense it  
Tremulous and tender.  
Turn your face away  
From the garish light of day,  
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light,  
And listen to the music of the night."  
This Dublin was not the city she had known. The multitude of starving beggars and prostitutes made it more apropriate for the flicks than for real life. Nervous Party members danced furtively down the sidewalks, no longer arrogant in their superiority, nor insular in their fear.  
Night did not disguise the holocaust with darkness. Instead, the harsh streetlights emphasized the deep shadows cast by the wreckage, and the shadows in the gaunt faces of the inhabitants. The bright lights cast an eerie, unnatural light on this horrific world, outlining every shining object in inky black. The images were dreamlike, the emotions heart-wrenchingly real.  
"Close your eyes  
And surrender to your darkest dreams.  
Purge your thoughts  
Of the life you knew before.  
Close your eyes,  
Let your spirit start to soar!  
And you'll live   
As you've never lived before."  
Suddenly, movement caught Renee's eye. She looked over, but it was nothing but the telescreen, denouncing the COR sabotage of the Dublin salvage operation. Renee was tempted to snort, but stopped herself, as it would draw undue attention. It was obvious to anyone in Dublin that the Party had no intention of salvaging her city. She kept walking.  
The people were more guarded now. Even proles had carefully sculpted faces designed to betray no emotion, no disapproval, no anger. The invisible masses had become painfully visible to the Party.  
She stopped on a street corner, looking down a small street that was lined with stores and pubs. There was a Party member standing under a streetlight, arguing with a whore over her price. Stupid, she thought. The street, even with its lack of telescreens, was bound to have microphones to record any activity. Any Party member stupid enough to argue with a prostitute was begging for attention from the patrols. Renee headed down the street, and tried to step around them, but the young man's face caught her eye.  
Michael.  
He held her gaze for a split second, then shoved his money into the whore's hand and waved her off.  
"What, do you think I'm asking for charity?" she almost screamed indignantly.  
"Get out of here!" he shouted. "Go on!"  
She slapped him across the face, then strode off, money in hand.  
Michael and Renee stared at one another.  
"Softly, deftly,  
Music shall caress you.  
Hear it, feel it  
Secretly possess you.  
Open up your mind,  
Let your fantasies unwind  
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight:  
The darkness of the music of the night."  
Michael looked down the street after the prostitute, then grabbed Renee's arm. She hissed in pain, but followed him away from the main street, further into the darkness. They walked quickly through the maze of streets, avoiding any with telescreens, finally stopping in a dead-end alleyway shrouded in shadows.  
Michael released his hold on her arm and stepped away from her, his back against the alley wall. He took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. Then he reached out and touched her hair.  
"You're alive," he whispered, letting his hand rest on her shoulder.  
Renee reached up and lightly stroked his cheek, savouring the sensation of his stubble under her fingertips. He was thinner than she remembered.  
"So are you," was all she could think of to say. He smiled under her fingers, then took her hand away from his face, holding it to his heart.  
"How?"  
"We got out before the bomb hit. Our house was gone before we got back..." She wanted to tell him everything, about the COR, Waterford, Galway, and Baile Saoirse. But she did not. "We managed to leave the city, and we only came back yesterday." She paused. "You?"  
"Got out as soon as you left me. Picked my way through the streets on the way home, and I've been playing the good little Party member ever since."  
"Except at night," whispered Renee wryly.  
"Only occasionally. Good thing, too," he said softly. He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. "It's worth the risk, now."  
She smiled, but said nothing.  
"Let your mind  
Start a journey through a strange new world,  
Leave all thoughts  
Of the world you knew before.  
Let your soul  
Take you where you long to be!  
Only then   
Can you belong to me."  
She concentrated on every sensation, every contact: her hand in his hair, his lips on hers, his hands on her back, the taste, the smell, her racing heart.  
"I love you," he whispered, then dove back into the kiss.  
Did she love him? Looking back, Renee realized she would never know. It was a fleeting moment, stolen from the world that controlled them, and any outside perspective distorted the memory. She might have whispered it in his ear, but whether she meant it then was another thing entirely. She often wondered whether he had meant it as well.  
"Floating, falling,  
Sweet intoxication.  
Touch me, trust me,  
Savour each sensation.  
Let the dream begin,  
Let your darker side give in  
To the power of the music that I write:  
The power of the music of the night."  
An alleyway tryst is often the least romantic of encounters. It is the realm of the underworld, of prostitutes and thieves. However, it was the perfect disguise for lovemaking in a world that condemned romance. To a passerby, the couple could have been any whore and her customer, but to Renee and Michael, the dark, cold reality disappeared as they fell together into a world where the Party could never keep them apart.  
"You alone can make my song take flight.  
Help me make the music of the night."  
  
Author's Note:  
As you've probably figured out, the song is The Music of the Night from Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera.  
For those of you who were kind enough to care, yes, Michael is alive, and yes, he was unscathed by the bombing of the Warehouse. And don't worry, there will be a reason why he showed up at that particular moment.  
  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.  
The Phantom of the Opera is by Andrew Lloyd Webber, with lyrics by Charles Hart and Richard Stilgoe. 


	14. Fragments

Chapter 14:  
Fragments  
  
Renee returned to the pub with the events of the night racing through her head, her skin still electrified by the physical memory, and the anticipation for their arranged meeting the day after next flowing through her. Constance was still asleep as she slid into their room, for which Renee was grateful. She was sure she would have given everything away, just by the shining excitement in her eyes. However, despite her raging emotions, Renee managed to sleep for a few hours before Constance woke her as the grey light of dawn filtered through the thin curtains. The two women dressed and set out to complete their mission.  
They slid out the pub, not seeing Shadow or his wife, and took the Tube to the nearest station to their parents' homes, then walked through the neighbourhoods where they had spent their childhoods together.  
The buildings were almost completely demolished. It looked to Renee as if a huge giant had stomped across the city, squashing everything underfoot. Renee remembered the landmarks of her childhood as they had been, now reduced to piles of debris. The Dublin of her memories had never been beautiful or unique, but tears came to her eyes when she saw it destroyed. Fear gripped her as she realized that her parents' home was probably in ruins too.  
They turned down the street where their parents lived to be greeted with the same scene: rubble piled haphazardly, buildings in ruins, people trying to salvage anything from the destruction. Their parents' neighbours were evident among the scavengers, but not their own families.  
Constance bit her lip and crossed the street to the building where her family had lived, Renee staying close to her side. They approached an older woman who was hanging laundry on a makeshift line outside the ruined building.  
"Mrs. MacDonagh?" Constance asked quietly.  
"That would be - Constance Edwards?" Mrs. MacDonagh's hand dropped from the line as she saw the two women on the other side of the line. "And Renee Pearse? Oh, it's good to see you well!" She wiped her hands on her dress and embraced the younger women. "And where have you been all this time?"  
"We left Dublin for Waterford the morning after ... this. We've only been able to come back now," Renee said.  
"Wise ones, you are. I would have done the same, if Daniel had been well." Mrs. MacDonagh shook her head sadly.  
"I'm sorry. What happened to him?" asked Constance.  
"Ah, he'll be all right. Just had his leg broken in the ... well..." Mrs. MacDonagh gestured at the ruined street. "He'll be up on his feet in no time, just you see."  
"Have you been here all this time?"  
Mrs. MacDonagh nodded.  
"We've taken one of the inner rooms on the ground floor. It did fairly well that night, and no-one else claimed it, so..."  
"Is anyone else still here?" whispered Constance, staring up at the destroyed first and second floors of the building.  
"It's just me and Daniel now, Connie." Mrs. MacDonagh fidgeted uneasily with the skirt of her dress. Constance noticed the gesture, and swallowed nervously.  
"My parents?" she whispered.  
"I'm sorry, Connie."  
Constance sucked in a breath. The colour faded from her face as she balled her hands into fists. Renee reached over and laid a hand on her friend's shoulder.  
"Eamon?" Constance managed.  
"He's all right, Connie. He went with Renee's parents to Cork."   
Mrs. MacDonagh reached out to lay a sympathetic hand on Constance, but the young woman stepped away , jerking her shoulder out from Renee's grasp. She shook her head, her breaths coming in sharp gasps, then muttered something about it being impossible, how it couldn't be. Renee turned to Mrs. MacDonagh.  
"Where are they?" she asked, blinking away tears.  
"In the cemetery. Your mother made sure of that."  
"Then they're all right?" Renee instantly regretted it, hated the selfishness of the question, but Mrs. MacDonagh only smiled sadly.  
"They're all right. After the burial, they took Eamon and went to your mother's family in Cork."  
Renee nodded, then turned back to Constance. The beautiful redhead had her arms wrapped around herself, rubbing her upper arms, even though it was a warm summer's day. She stared blankly at a point on the ground with no real significance. Renee could feel the lump in her throat rising, and an itchiness in her eyes. She stepped forward and put her arms around her best friend.  
"Stance, I'm sorry." It was all she could say, all she knew to say.   
Constance gently pushed her away, a confused look on her face.  
"This can't be real. It doesn't feel real. I..." Her voice trailed off as she shook her head. Renee's tears were running freely now.  
"Stance..."  
Constance sat down on a pile of rubble, staring up at the ruins of her childhood home.  
"Stance?"  
"I'm fine." Constance's voice was calm, if a little more hollow than usual.  
"Stance -"  
"For now." Constance gave a little laugh with no humour in it. "Don't know about later."  
Through her own tears, Renee stared at her best friend, whose dark eyes were perfectly dry.  
"We'd best be going," said Constance suddenly.  
"What?"  
"Thank you, Mrs. MacDonagh," said Constance, but her voice broke as she said it. Mrs. MacDonagh smiled.  
"God bless you both," she said.  
Constance nodded, and steered the still crying Renee down the street. Renee hastily wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse as they turned down a street with telescreens. The Tube ride back to the pub was spent in silence, Constance staring out the window, her jaw tight and her fists balled, and Renee with her arms wrapped around her stomach, watching Constance.  
Walking between the Tube station and the pub, Renee saw nothing but the striding form of her best friend, head held high. Her vision blurred every so often as she remembered Constance's parents, and she would quickly swipe at her face to hide it.  
They spent the afternoon in their room, neither saying much beyond the necessities, nor eating much when they decided to eat. At one point, Constance left to go for a walk and returned about an hour later, saying nothing of what had happened. Renee let all her tears out while Constance was away, knowing that it was subtly wrong that she was the one weeping over Constance's loss.   
As evening fell, Shadow's wife knocked on the door to tell them the pub was open. Constance immediately got to her feet.  
"Coming?" she asked.   
Renee shook her head, not in the mood for drinking or music. Constance shrugged and left.  
An hour later, Shadow's wife once more appeared at the door, this time with Constance's arm around her shoulders. Constance's nose was bleeding, and she held her hip painfully as she dragged herself with Shadow's wife's help into the room.  
"Fucking hell, what happened to you?" Renee almost shouted.  
"She got into a little tussle with one of the other customers," said Shadow's wife.  
"You started a barfight?"  
"I didn't start it!" Constance tried to say, but it came out "I didn't start - aagh!" as she sat down on her blanket. She lifted a hand to her nose, and gratefully accepted a handkerchief from Shadow's wife.  
"What happened?" Renee asked the older woman.  
"One of the other customers tried getting friendly with her, and wouldn't take no for an answer."  
"He called me a whore when I turned him down," supplied Constance through the handkerchief.  
"Did he recognize you?" demanded Renee.  
Constance shook her head.  
"Never seen him before. It was just an insult."   
"Not just an insult," continued Shadow's wife. "She punched him for it. I must say, he deserved it. And he's worse off than she is."  
Renee knelt by Constance and gently removed her hand from her leg. Constance unzipped her skirt one-handed and slid it down so that Renee could assess the injury. Her right hip was bruised in shades of black, violet and green which continued down her outer thigh.  
"What did he do?" Renee asked.  
"Smashed me into a table," replied Constance matter-of-factly as she refastened her skirt.  
"Can I get you ladies anything?" asked Shadow's wife.  
"No, thank you," Renee said.  
When the older woman was gone, Renee sat down across from her bleeding friend.  
"You didn't care that he called you a whore, did you?" she said quietly. "Hell, you call yourself that sometimes. You just wanted to hit something, to make someone else bleed, didn't you?"  
"Yeah," whispered Constance.  
Renee shook her head.  
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Stance, just tell me what I can do."  
Constance held her gaze for a moment, then dropped it as she checked whether her nose was still bleeding.  
"You can get me another handkerchief," she said softly.  
Renee smiled weakly and fetched Constance's handkerchief. Shadow's wife's bloody handkerchief was quickly discarded into a corner.  
When the bleeding stopped, the silence that had reigned over the room all day returned, but it was broken by a sudden sob from Constance.  
Instantly, Renee was at her best friend's side, laying Constance's head on her shoulder, crying silently as Constance's tears soaked her blouse. They spent the night that way, Constance's violent sobs shaking her body as her surrogate sister held her. Sometimes Constance would rail in anger against the Party and Big Brother, and other times she would descend into self-blame over the bombing. In the morning, Constance fell asleep, and Renee tucked the blanket around her, and did not sleep herself, but instead watched the sun rise, and mourned.  
  
Author's Note:  
The MacDonaghs are named after Thomas MacDonagh, one of the leaders of the Easter Rising. And I forgot to say before, but Eamon Edwards is named after Eamon De Valera, the first President of the Irish Republic.  
  
Disclaimer:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell. 


	15. Gethsemane

Chapter 15:  
Gethsemane  
  
Having completed their mission, Renee and Constance planned to leave that day, after Renee met with Michael one last time. Renee had not yet told Constance about their encounter in the alley, deciding that there was no use burdening her friend with the added worry, and secretly wishing to keep her romance all to herself. There would be plenty of time for explanations back at the Baile. So she left Sullivan's pub without telling Constance where she intended to go. Constance smiled sadly, but did not ask.  
Renee arrived back in the alley a full half hour before she was supposed to meet Michael. She was already imagining their final meeting; the sad smiles, the constant kissing, the refusal to let go. Part of her wanted him to never come, so that she would never have to say goodbye. She leaned against the wall, pressing her gun in her pocket against her thigh. She shifted so that the weapon did not dig into her leg.  
He had said that he had this morning off, and that he would arrive at ten hundred. She had told him that she would give at least fifteen minutes between their arrivals. She was aware that she was probably overcompensating, but she wanted to extend their meeting for as long as she could.  
The sound of a helicopter distracted her from her thoughts. She pressed herself back against the wall of the alley, silently cursing all Thought Police and their ancestry back seven generations. Then her blood froze as she heard the sound of a vehicle driving up the street.  
In Oceania, cars in the city were almost never seen. Party members were not allowed to own cars, and proles were too poor to buy them. The only vehicles that were seen on city streets were the black vans driven by the Thought Police that transported prisoners to the Ministry of Love. They were treated by the proles with a mixture of fear and contempt. Being carted away by the Thought Police did not hold the terror it did for Party Members. Most proles were simply sent to prison camps for a few years, then returned without ceremony. But there was always the small percentage that never returned.  
The van stopped a hundred metres from the alley where Renee waited. She could still hear the helicopter, continuing on its patrol. Her hand dropped to her pocket. Her heart hammered against her chest. She fought against visions of Miniluv and black-clad Thought Police. She realized dimly that they must have caught Michael, but pushed aside that grief for another time.  
She heard the door to the van open and close, then the back doors open, and several people step out of the van.  
"You'll have to go to the other end of the alley to cut off any escape route."  
It was a man's voice, icy and flat. Businesslike. Suddenly, reason caught up with her mind, and she sprinted down the alley, away from the Thought Police. She turned down the street, and stopped running. Catching her breath, she forced herself to walk calmly, fighting the urge to run as fast as she could. She turned onto the street where she had seen Michael, then risked a glance upward at the still-circling helicopter. Looking down the street, she realized how many telescreens lined it. She walked past them, every instinct in her telling her to dart past them and not let them see her. Prayers to God, Jesus and the Virgin Mary floated through her head, begging for protection and inconspicuousness. Then a hand grabbed her arm and dragged her into a ruined building.  
She was slammed against the wall, and her mouth covered as she gasped from the pain of having her wound grabbed so harshly. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she recognized Michael opposite her. He removed his hand from her mouth, and his grip on her arm relaxed, but he still held her against the wall. He looked different, somehow.  
"There's Thought Police everywhere. We need to go," she whispered.  
"No," he said. His voice was clear, with no attempt to hide it from anyone outside. "We'll wait for them here."  
Then she realized what was wrong. There was no love in his eyes, none of the insecurity or fear that had permeated his being in all their previous meetings. His eyes were now cold and hard, looking at her with distaste. Everything fell into place.  
"You're Thought Police?" she demanded.  
He slapped her across the face with his free hand, then gripped her arm tighter.  
A thousand scenarios for his betrayal raced through her mind. Maybe he had been captured at the Warehouse, and forced to seduce and betray her. Maybe he still loved her, and this was an act for the approaching Thought Police. But most likely, he had played her all along. The telescreens would have told him where to find her two nights ago, and he had waited for her, getting into the fight with the whore to get her attention. A Thought Police agent had probably seen Andrew talking with the musicians at the Warehouse, then her talking with Andrew, and assumed she was COR. Then the Thought Police had sent Michael after her. He had probably intended to turn her over to them after the Warehouse was bombed; in the confusion, no-one would have noticed another missing woman. But the pain, the love? She had believed him, and that hurt more than her arm.  
He shook his hand from the blow he had dealt her. The tears started running down her face from the pain and betrayal, and she could do nothing to stop them. She clenched her jaw against the pain, and slammed her heel into his foot, feeling bones snap under the force. As he let go of her and stepped back, she rammed her other knee into his crotch.  
She leaned against the wall, steadying herself with her uninjured arm. He moaned on the ground, but she concentrated on breathing. Tears dripped off her chin onto her blouse, but she paid them no heed. She listened hard, but could hear no-one coming. She looked down at the prone man at her feet.  
The sting of betrayal was quickly boiling into a flood of anger and hate. She felt repulsed by the memory of his touching her, his kiss. The electric sensations were now disgusting and frightful. She hated what she once loved.  
Without consciously thinking, her hand dove into her pocket and drew her gun. She had carried it with her since leaving the Baile, but never used it. Its weight was comforting to her, a symbol of the strength of the army behind her, and the friends who would never betray her like this man had.  
He looked up at her, and their eyes met, only this time, both held equal hatred for the other. She tightened her jaw, and his head jerked up as red spattered the ground around him.  
She had never heard a gun fired, and it surprised her how loud it was. It also surprised her that its recoil threw her hand into the air. It wasn't like on the flicks, where someone could fire successive shots without so much as a slight jerk to the hand. She could feel her wrist straining to keep the gun level, fighting the power of the weapon. And the flicks, as gory as Party flicks were, never really captured the horror of a bullet travelling through a human body. It was the smell that drove home the reality to Renee. She could smell the blood, sharp in the air, and she knew that she had taken her first life. She stared down at Michael's body, the pool of blood and brains still spreading on the dirty ground, and fought the nausea that came.  
But she could not stay there. She plunged the gun back into her pocket and picked her way through the ruined building, to the back door that Michael must have used. Looking up at the helicopter, she walked across the street and stepped into a shop, then watched as Thought Police converged on the building she had just left. While they were inside, finding the mess she had left behind, she stepped back into the street and walked to the nearest Tube station. She rode that for a while, getting off, then getting back on. She crossed and recrossed Dublin, always carefully noting where the helicopters were patrolling.  
Finally, three hours later, she arrived back at Sullivan's. Shadow was behind the bar, taking inventory. She went up the stairs and directly into the bathroom, where she threw up what she had kept down before.  
Constance knocked on the door.  
"Renee?" she called.  
Renee wiped her mouth, then rinsed it with water from the sink. She opened the door.  
"Are you all right?" Constance asked.  
"No." She stopped, wanting to tell Constance everything that had happened, then decided that there would be time for that later. "But I'll be fine soon."  
Constance nodded, but said nothing.  
"Come on. We've got a train to catch."  
  
Author's Note:  
Gethsemane was the garden where Christ spent the night waiting for the Roman soldiers to come and arrest him. The original title for this chapter was "Judas Kiss," but I thought that gave too much away. :)  
Disclaimers:  
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.  
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell. 


	16. A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

Chapter 16: A Cold and Broken Hallelujah  
  
The night air was cool and damp when Renee and Constance arrived back at Baile Saoirse. Neither had said much on the trip back to Galway, and answered the men's anxious questions with only short responses. Andrew and Thomas expressed their sympathies to Constance, but, in the end, the four fell silent, and sleep was the only respite from the heavy mood.  
Morning did not improve the atmosphere of the castle. Rain pummelled the ancient stones, and the grey light gave the world an expression of grief. Renee sat in the room where they slept, watching the rain bounce off the window sill. She was wrapped in a blanket, but the chill still penetrated to her bones. She could hear Constance and Andrew in the kitchen, although the exact words she could not make out. Thomas had gone to check the generator.  
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, but the added warmth only served to remind her of another time, when she had found warmth in him. She tried to forget him, everything about him, but anything she did, any move she made reminded her of him. It was the memories, not the cold, that made her shudder. But even worse was the memory of his death. At her hands.  
She clasped her hands together to stop their shaking, but even that reminded her of the alley.  
Frustrated, she threw the blanket aside and climbed the tower to the open roof. The rain hit her like tiny needles piercing her skin, but she soaked up the feeling as something in the present, forcing her away from her memories. In the rain, she could pretend she was not crying.  
Her mind replayed his death. She remembered the surge of adrenaline, the hatred that pulsed through her, the betrayal. She could not remember deciding to kill him, only that it was the obvious thing to do at the time. She stared down at her hands. They should have been covered in blood, not rainwater.  
She had considered the possibility that she would have to kill. Intellectually, she had known that she would have to face that possibility. But somehow, it had seemed distant then, like something on the flicks. She had never realized what her rebellion had meant.  
Standing in the middle of the roof, she lifted her face to the sky. The raindrops stung her face, just another reminder that she was alive, and Michael was not because of her.  
The guilt was overwhelming. All she could remember was the sight of his body, the smell of his blood.  
Almost blind with tears and rain, she stumbled to the wall that surrounded the roof. Her stomach tightened as she placed her hands on the wall and looked out over the Connemara.  
"I won't look down," she repeated to herself softly.  
She leaned over the wall and shut her eyes, but as she tried to lift her foot to climb onto the wall, her foot slipped on the wet stone, and she fell with her stomach on the wall. Her eyes snapped open, and she saw the drop to the ground. Her pulse jumped sky high, and her stomach clenched tighter than a fist. She spent a terrible moment, staring down at the ground, then pushed herself back onto the roof and away from the wall. She collapsed with her back against the wall, breathing heavily.  
She stayed there for a while, her head in her hands, until Thomas ran up the stairs calling her name.  
"What are you doing up here?" he asked. Then he got a good look at her. "You're soaked."  
"Aye," she said hollowly.  
He knelt before her.  
"What is it?" he asked.  
She said nothing.  
"Is it Constance's parents?"  
She shook her head.  
"Did something happen in Dublin?"  
She nodded.  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
She hesitated. He reached out and took her hand.  
"You can trust me," he said.  
So she told him. She told him everything, her conflicting feelings of hate and desire, her guilt over his death, even her half-hearted urge to throw herself off the roof. He listened quietly, allowing her to let everything out. When she finished, he put his arms around her, and let her cry onto his shoulder. They stayed there for a while, the rain soaking their clothes so much that they eventually stopped noticing. When she had finally stopped crying, he put an arm around her shoulders and led her down into the tower.  
They changed their clothes, then Thomas wrapped Renee in a dry blanket and made her a cup of tea. She looked up at him as he handed her the mug.  
"Would you..." She hesitated. "Could you not tell the others about this?"  
He took a deep breath.  
"Are you ever going to tell them?" he asked.  
Renee thought for a long moment.  
"Yes. Eventually. But not now," she said.  
Thomas nodded.  
"Then I won't. I promise you."  
Renee gave him a small smile.  
"Thank you."  
Thomas smiled and embraced her, then headed down to the kitchen, leaving Renee alone with her thoughts once more.  
  
Author's Note: I'm extremely sorry for the long wait, but life stuff seems to keep getting in the way. Rest assured that I will finish this story eventually. It's all locked safe in my head. The chapter title is taken from Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Here are the two verses that really made me write this chapter: Maybe I've been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. I've seen your flag on the marble arch. Love is not a victory march; It's a cold, and it's a broken Hallelujah. ... Maybe there's a God above, And all I ever learned from love Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. And it's not a cry you can hear at night, It's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold, and it's a broken Hallelujah.  
  
Disclaimer: Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan. Nineteen Eighty-four is by George Orwell. Hallelujah is by Leonard Cohen. 


	17. Quiet on New Year's Day

Chapter 17: Quiet on New Year's Day  
  
Summer turned to autumn, and autumn into winter. Black market heaters and stoves were installed in Baile Saoirse, but it was still bitterly cold in the castle. Renee, as commander-in-chief, directed the military operations, often travelling herself to various cities across Ireland. Andrew, ever-practical, complained bitterly about the security problems this posed, but she ignored him. Across Ireland, the Party suffered many attacks on Thought Police members, arson attempts, and bombings. The COR suffered equally, with raids, arrests and executions occurring almost daily. The reports occupied a pile in a corner of the kitchen at Baile Saoirse, which Renee tried to ignore with every fibre of her being.  
On New Year's Day, 1992, Renee and Thomas were in County Kerry. As her New Year's present to the Party, Renee would personally oversee an attack on a prison camp in a rural area of the county. It was bitterly cold as they rode on horseback over the hills of Kerry from the temporary base that had been erected there. Renee had never ridden before, but her horse was docile and tame, and the raiding party did not travel at high speeds, so she had very few problems.  
The raiding party rounded the last hill in the morning fog, which lay thick and wet on the hills. Thankfully, it masked the party's approach, but it was still freezing. Renee was thankful that she was wearing a pair of Andrew's woollen trousers rather than one of her own skirts.  
As a New Year's present, Andrew had given her an old-fashioned analog watch to keep the time. At first, she had been confused by the fact that there were only twelve hours, but Andrew had explained the AM and PM principles. She pulled it out of her pocket. 8:37. AM, she guessed, not really remembering which one was morning. No time like the present. She replaced the watch, and pulled out her revolver from the thigh-holster she had acquired in October. With a wave of her arm, the party crept forward on horseback, fanning out to surround their side of the camp. Three other teams were doing the same from different directions. She nodded at the young man to her right, who dismounted, took a package from his saddlebag, and crept forward on foot. The riders advanced slowly. The young man was gone for only a few minutes when he came running back, and mounted swiftly. A few seconds later, an explosion turned the fog orange. Another explosion came in quick succession.  
A primal yell ripped from Renee's throat as the riders around her charged at the huge gap in the fence. Too inexperienced to charge, she was forced to satisfy herself with watching and proceeding at a slower pace. Another explosion signified that the third party had breached the camp perimeter. Renee brought her horse forward, stepping through the breach with a stately air. The smoke and fog mixed into an unpleasant grey blanket, but out of the clouds came figures dressed in rags. She could hear the gunshots from the officers' building, but they were strangely muted.  
Suddenly, a man on her right dropped to the ground, red blossoming on his arm. Renee turned in her seat, aimed and fired, hitting the sniper in the guard tower. He fell from the tower, landing on the ground with a sickening crunch. Heart pounding, Renee dismounted, and went to the man the sniper had shot, but he waved her away.  
"Fine, just fine. Go," he said. There was a note of pain, but his voice was strong and adamant.  
Renee nodded, and remounted, with some help from one of the prisoners. She reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a roll of bandages, tossing it to the person helping the wounded man sit up. The fourth and final explosion rocked the ground, but the man caught the bandages anyway.  
"Thank you," he said brightly, which Renee thought was a little out of place. The man paused. "And you are?"  
"Phoenix," replied Renee. Before the man could respond, she was gone, toward the gunfight at the officer's building.  
The firefight was at a standstill. The two opponents were only exchanging fire, and everyone had taken up good enough defensive positions to avoid being hit. Three bodies were within Renee's field of view, though. She approached the highest operative in the raiding party, White Knight.  
"I'll take a team into the building," she said.  
"Is that wise, ma'am?" he answered.  
"It will have to be, won't it?" she snapped.  
"Right." He looked around, and signalled to Renee's quarter of the raiding party. They converged on her, and she quickly dispensed her orders. She and five other operatives ran out from the cover to the wall of the building. One was shot through the neck, and fell dead behind them. Willing herself not to think about her, Renee signalled the four remaining operatives to line up alongside the door. The biggest operative kicked the door down. The five fighters entered silently, guns trained ahead of them.  
The officers' building was hardly grand. A small foyer was hung with a portrait of Big Brother facing the door, bearing the caption "BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU." Two banners hung on each side wall. The one on the right listed the three Party slogans, the left bore "WHO CONTROLS THE PAST CONTROLS THE FUTURE: WHO CONTROLS THE PRESENT CONTROLS THE PAST." There was a doorway under each banner.  
Renee took this all in with a glance, then signalled three of her fighters to the right, and took the biggest operative with her to the left. The other three hesitated, then followed her orders. Renee crept up to the doorway, the man behind her. She could hear nothing. She quickly risked a glance through the doorway, then snapped back to the wall. The room was clear. She nodded to the man, and they crept through the hallway on the other side of the doorway, gun muzzles leading. They checked every room off the corridor in this manner, but all were empty. They were mostly clerks' offices, with some supply rooms at the end of the hall. There was nothing valuable there, so they left them and kept going. At the end of the hall was a staircase leading up.  
As they crept into the stairwell, they could hear the continued gunfire from upstairs grow louder. Then it exploded in Renee's ears, and she realized that there were soldiers at the top of the stairs. They took refuge under the stairs leading up to the second floor as bits of concrete and dust filled the air. She heard the sound of boots coming down the stairs over her head. She shared a glance with her companion. As the boots came into view above her, she fired for all she was worth. The young man with the rifle fell, knocking over his companion, a young woman. Renee pulled the trigger again, but her gun was empty.  
"Fuck!" she said with feeling.  
A bullet embedded itself in the wall behind her as the woman fired, but Renee's companion finished her off. Breathing heavily, the two COR operatives nodded to each other.  
"Thanks," said Renee.  
The quiet man just smiled. Renee reloaded her revolver, but put the safety back on and holstered it. Instead, she took one of the Party officer's rifles. Her companion took the other and slung it over his shoulder "just in case." Renee checked her new weapon like an expert. In the four months since Michael's death, she had bullied Andrew into training her with all the weapons used by the COR. Now, she thanked that training.  
A glance down at the two bodies sent a chill through her body. The young man she had killed could not have been older than twenty, and he looked eerily like Eamon Edwards from the angle where she stood. Renee shook herself and led the way up the stairs.  
The corridor turned to the left, then branched off either straight or to the right. Skylights lit up the hallways, which had no windows. Renee could hear loud gunfire coming from the right. Creeping up to the corner, she peeked around to see an officer running between rooms. She turned to her companion, their backs against the wall, and explained the situation.  
"Just take it a step at a time," she said.  
Peeking around the corner, she waited until the coast was clear. Then she and her backup rounded the corner at full speed and ducked through the open door into the nearest room, firing with everything they had. The three officers fell dead, bullets in their backs. A radio crackled next to the oldest, who had been standing at the back, but Renee paid it no heed.  
The next time she stepped into the hall, she saw three figures emerge at the other end. Renee signalled that they were to do as she and her companion had done. The building was small, and there were only five room on this corridor. A shadow fell across a doorway, and Renee ducked back into her room.  
A young officer turned to step into the room when both Renee and her backup shot him through the chest. They dragged the body into the room, left it, and ran into the next, guns blazing. They repeated the process quickly, then sprinted into the fourth room to meet up with the rest of their squad.  
They used one of the dead men's shirts as a white flag, and signalled to White Knight that they had taken that side of the building. Immediately, the remaining fighters charged through the front door. Renee and her squad met them in the corridor.  
"There are still officers firing from the windows," she said. She split up the fighters to each take a side of the building, to work toward the back of the building. Half an hour later, the battle was over, and the officers of Oceania were all dead. Renee had lost five more fighters, but they had taken the camp.  
Thomas met her as she exited the officers' building. He took her arm, and pulled her to the back. There were five bodies hanging from a gibbet, and a few of her fighters, fidgeting near it in silence. Neither Renee nor Thomas spoke. Renee lowered her head.  
"Cut them down," she said. "Give them a decent burial."  
"Don't you want to -" Thomas started.  
"It doesn't matter who they were. No one deserves to end up like that. Just do it, Thomas." She turned and walked away from the gruesome sight.  
As she rounded the corner of the officers' building, she was greeted with the sight of over a hundred prisoners gathered there, silent, watching. White Knight strode over to her.  
"They want to know what will happen to them," he said.  
"We'll get them into the cities. We'll provide transportation and clothing for them, that's all waiting at the base," she said.  
"They'll want to hear that from you," he said.  
Renee blinked. He expected her to make a speech, to address this crowd. To make history. She opened her mouth to say "I can't," but shut it when she looked around. Instead, she gently pushed White Knight out of her way and stepped forward into the empty space around the building.  
"When I entered this building behind me, I passed through a door under a banner that said 'Freedom is slavery.' I don't believe that. I don't think anyone who has suffered as you all have, who has had their freedom taken from them, can ever say that. Your courage in surviving this place makes you heros in my eyes. I now ask you to prove that freedom is something worth fighting and living for. If you follow my men, we will take you to our base, and from there, we promise transportation anywhere in Ireland. We also offer a place in our ranks, if you so wish. All we ask is that you make your choices of your own free will. Happy New Year's."  
It wasn't the most eloquent speech ever made, but it felt right, for the moment. A murmur of approval spread through the prisoners. There was no cheer, not even applause, but the nodding of heads showed Renee that she had said the right thing. Renee walked into the crowd, followed by White Knight. Their backs were patted, words of thanks were uttered to them. As Renee broke free of the crowd, she saw one of her fighters holding her horse for her. White Knight gave her a leg up, and she mounted. She leaned down to the woman holding her horse.  
"Oberon and a few others are in the back, burying the dead. See to it that we get names for the bodies," she whispered.  
The woman nodded. Renee sat up straight on her horse.  
"We will leave as soon as our work here is finished. There are five bodies behind the officers' building that we are burying, and we do not want to place them in unmarked graves. Please take this time to gather your belongings. We will leave when everyone is ready."  
Two hours later, Thomas and the others were finished with the funerals. Names had been supplied, and Thomas had had them carved on what used to be a tabletop, which was laid over the graves. They set out, a strange procession, with Renee, Thomas and White Knight in the lead, followed by the mounted fighters, and then by the throng of former prisoners. As they marched through the hills, the prisoners began to sing.  
"The heart is a bloom,  
Shoots up through the stony ground.  
There's no room,  
No space to rent in this town.  
You're out of luck,  
And the reason that you had to care,  
The traffic is stuck,  
And you're not moving anywhere.  
You thought you'd found a friend  
To take you out of this place,  
Someone you could lend a hand to  
In return for grace.  
  
It's a beautiful day.  
Sky falls, you feel like  
It's a beautiful day.  
Don't let it get away..."  
Hearing the music, Renee couldn't help but smile.  
  
Author's Note: The chapter title is from U2's song New Year's Day. The song is U2's Beautiful Day. Come on, I couldn't resist putting a U2 song in.  
  
Disclaimer: Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan. Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell. New Year's Day is by U2. Beautiful Day is by U2. 


End file.
